Breaking the Borders
by Anastigmat
Summary: Bad magic goes wild after the White Witch's death. In an effort to reunite Narnia with the rest of the world, its young monarchs encounter strange allies, mysterious foes, and uncover Narnia's forgotten history. Golden Age fic.
1. A Most Curious Queen

**The Fine Print, Which I'm Only Doing Once:** Clive Staples Lewis wrote, in 1962, in response to a child's letter: "And why not write stories for yourself to fill up the gaps in Narnian history?" I'd like to think he extended this blessing to all of us. Jack's stories illuminated my childhood. If he says it's okay for me to do this, then it _must_ be, because he was always honest with us when we were young. At any rate, be assured this story is done for love, and with respect.

* * *

_In which a Walk is taken, a Frog is met, summertime is accepted as nothing short of miraculous, and an Idea is planted._

* * *

Narnia in summer, Tumnus thought, was a thing he would never take for granted. He'd been a very young Faun when Jadis had cast her wintry curse, and some days he wasn't sure if he ever remembered otherwise.

Miraculous was what it was; the defeat of the Witch; the return of Aslan; yet as far as Tumnus was concerned, the most miraculous thing of all was, at this moment, eagerly towing him towards a small, murky pond ringed with thick mud.

"Tadpoles!" the youngest Queen of Narnia exclaimed. "Look at them! Are they _talking_ tadpoles?"

"I think not," Tumnus said, edging back from the water so as not to get wet above the hooves. He did not like the feel of mud in his fur, especially the way it itched as it dried. "If they were, their parents would be nearby, and would have said hello."

"P'r'aps we didn't know what _you_ were," a small earthy voice said. "You'd be the Queen then?"

Lucy cast about on the shore and eventually found the source of the voice: a small brown frog whose eyes shone like burnished copper. She squatted on the bank – trailing her skirts in the mud; she would hear about this when they returned to Cair Paravel – and smiled at the frog. "My name is Lucy, please," she told it, holding out a hand. The frog stared.

"You shake it," Tumnus added helpfully.

"Dare say she could shake me," the Frog said, but it put out one webbed foot and touched Lucy's finger. "It's an honor to meet you, Majesty. My name is Hopleaf."

"Pleased to meet you!" Lucy exclaimed. "Are these your children?" she asked, turning back to the wriggling water. "How old are they? How many of them do you have? Can they talk yet? Can I – would it hurt them if I touched them?"

The Frog glanced up at the Faun, with a rather un-frog-like expression of befuddlement on its face. Tumnus smiled as if to say: yes, she was always like this.

"They're a bit young for talking yet," Hopleaf said. "If you put your hand in the water they'll come to you – the young'uns are a bit scared of things they don't know." It leapt into the water, and the tadpoles eagerly swarmed it.

"Look!" Lucy said. "They know their—" She turned to Tumnus, and in a whisper a shade too loud, "Is that their mum or their dad?"

"Their father, I believe," Tumnus whispered quietly.

Their father, for so he was, had meanwhile led his children across the pond, swimming with swift, sure kicks of his long legs. He crouched in the shallows next to Lucy's hand. The little tadpoles eagerly wriggled around, making small rubbery noises that were not entirely unlike babies' talk.

"They tickle!" she giggled. "That one's got legs! How long before they can leave the water?"

"Be about another two weeks, Majesty," the Frog said.

"However can you tell them apart?"

"A parent always knows," the Frog said with a smile. "That 'un right there, he's my youngest. And the one with the legs, sitting on your finger, she was hatched first."

"They're lovely," Lucy said. "Tumnus! Come meet the tadpoles!"

"But I'd really—"

"Have you ever met a tadpole before?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then you must!"

Tumnus knew it was most unwise to say no to one's Queen. Besides, mud could always be brushed out of one's fur once it had dried.

--

Tumnus and Lucy had made a habit of taking walks in the forest. After a hundred years of winter, Tumnus could not bear to keep himself indoors all day, and Lucy – well – Lucy was always happiest outdoors. They could be found in the forests and fields, rain or shine, summer or winter, and during the colder and wetter months they both nursed near-constant sniffles. Now that Lucy's education had started in earnest, they did not have as much time as before, but as Lucy said, being out was even sweeter after days spent indoors poring over dusty old books.

Tumnus liked the dusty old books, but he doubted he would ever get his fill of walking through the Narnian forest with sun – summer sun! – warming his back, and his dearest friend holding his hand, or resting her head on his shoulder, for Lucy had grown much taller since she had arrived in Narnia.

"And that tree – what is it?"

"Next to the birch? That is a holly," Tumnus said.

"They look different without the berries," she said. "How can you tell which ones are Talking trees?"

"I'm not quite sure how to explain it," Tumnus said. "Something about the bark, I think. But you always can tell."

"I always can," she agreed. "But how? They don't _look_ any different."

"You are a Narnian. That is how you know."

The tree, as they both knew, was a Talking Tree, and it bent its branches in salute as they passed. They stopped at a blackberry bush soon afterwards, and the youngest Queen of Narnia, dress already muddied up to the knees, stuck her tongue out and asked if the berries had turned it blue. Indeed they had.

--

Lunch on these days was what Tumnus called 'nothing special' although Lucy always disagreed; it was taken from the leather satchel Tumnus carried and eaten whenever they felt like stopping in the cool shade of a tree. While they ate, Lucy would tell Tumnus the things she'd learned and Tumnus would reassure his queen that she was very smart indeed, and learning much better than he had, all the while remembering which bits she'd got wrong so that he could tell her tutors later. Then Tumnus would tell her the stories and tall tales the wood-people knew. When they grew tired of that, there were interesting shapes in the clouds, and the Talking Animals who lived in the forest would stop to chat awhile, and Tumnus always carried his flute in case Lucy wanted him to play it.

--

"Why can't I have hooves?" Lucy asked, sitting on a stump and examining her foot. A bright red spot of blood showed on her small pink heel, which she'd nicked on a rock.

"Because they would look silly on your hairless legs. Why do you insist on going barefoot and making me carry your shoes?" Tumnus asked, handing her a handkerchief to blot the blood.

"I like feeling the grass under my toes. And there, see – it's stopped already."

"Will you put your shoes back on now?"

"No."

"But you'll get the cut dirty."

"My feet are already dirty," she argued, and this was not untrue. "But if you insist—" and he did – the shoes went back on, only to be shucked off and put in the satchel for good fifteen minutes later when a stream needed crossing. Small things weren't worth arguing about, even if they flattened the cakes Tumnus had saved for a midafternoon snack. Tumnus knew it didn't matter much; Lucy would say they tasted the same anyway.

--

"I hate to go back on a day like this," Lucy said eventually, as their shadows grew behind them and they made their way back to the Cair, shining white and orange in the sun. Lucy was slightly sunburnt across her cheeks and nose; she had a pocket full of pretty rocks, flowers plaited in her hair, and a new bracelet made from a Centaur's braided tail-hairs. Tumnus, who did not bother with shirts, was sun-pinked on the face and shoulders too, except for where the satchel's strap crossed his back. The cakes had long since been eaten and Lucy's crown was probably bent under her shoes. The five bags of nuts pressed on them by overenthusiastic squirrels likely did not help matters any when it came to keeping crowns unbent.

"Can't we stay out?" Lucy asked, even as her stomach betrayed her by rumbling. "We should do that sometime, camp in the woods – for a week or two – oh, could we? Have you ever? Do you think Peter would mind terribly?"

"I have never known a Queen to ask so many questions," Tumnus said wryly, shifting the bag's strap. "You could ask him, I suppose."

"What's south of here?" she asked, ignoring the familiar complaint. "We never go south."

"Only forest."

"I thought you weren't good at geography."

"I'm not, but everybody knows to stay away from the wilds beyond the borders."

"Why? Can't we go there sometime?"

"I should think not. It is not a particularly safe place for one Faun and his Queen. Things are wild there. Dangerous."

"I thought there'd be other countries," Lucy mused. "Are there maps?"

"We could find some in the library, if you'd like."

"Can we do that after dinner?"

"Would this be before or after we unbend your crown, see to your foot, give that message to the frogs in the courtyard pond and press all those flowers?"

"Honestly, Tumnus!"

"We can look tomorrow." Tumnus opened the gate leading into the orchard, and let Lucy precede him. While he busied himself closing and latching the gate, she fished around in the bag and pulled her crown out from under the nuts and shoes.

"It's not even bent this time," she said, eyeing the silver circlet.

"That's a relief. Those Dwarves had quite a time sticking the leaves back on."

She put it on her head, and if it was skewed sideways, it didn't make her any less a Queen. "What's for dinner tonight?"

"Pavenders."

"How do you know?"

"I can smell them." Tumnus had, before they set out, asked the head cook this very question with Lucy standing next to him, but everyone knows that old jokes are the best ones, even – or perhaps especially – in Narnia.

* * *

The First of Many Lengthy Author's Notes:

_On this story:_ Here's how it is. I've got a nice big stack of things I'd love to address and introduce and deal with in a story – which likely involves a whole bunch of stuff less happy and wholesome than a day in a forest with our favorite Faun. I love Jack to death, don't get me wrong, and I know he didn't write LWW with a big long series in mind; it did, unfortunately, leave a few plot points you could drive a battalion of Centaurs through without anyone feeling crowded. How come nobody from Archenland (who, unless I have my Narnian history wrong, were all descended from Narnians) tried to help out? How come nobody from Calormen tried to invade? Yeah, I know – if I want big histories I should be looking into LOTR. Jack hadn't invented those places yet, is why, but since that doesn't really work in a story, well... you'll find out what I think if you keep reading.

_On copper-eyed Frogs: _I've got Hopleafs a-plenty living in my back yard; there is, in fact, one who lives in the palmetto outside my bedroom window. Google up a Cuban Tree Frog and you'll see what I imagined. They're tree frogs, not pond frogs, but I suppose the Narnian _Septentrionalis_ is a bit different.


	2. Inferior Workmanship and a Discovery

Magic is a curious thing. It is most similar to the machinery in Spare Oom: it works only as it is designed to. It is not a thing capable of consciousness or thought; it has no use for debates on inherent goodness or badness. It merely _is_.

Another interesting thing about magic is that, left alone, it will run wild.

-----

The path through the orchard led past the training grounds, which was why Lucy preferred it. Her brothers claimed that duels were the best way to work up an appetite, and it was a pleasant thing to collect them, each asking about the others' day, before going upstairs and indoors to dinner. The shouting and crashes from the training-court were nothing new, but today the noises sounded distinctly more frustrated than usual.

One of her brothers – until recently the taller one had been Peter, but these days when both wore helmets it was hard to tell them apart – was diligently bashing the other over the head with a mace, while the other stood patiently for the abuse, unarmed. Oreius looked on in consternation, one hand over his face.

"What on earth are you doing?" Lucy blurted, which caused the mace-wielding boy to lose his focus entirely and give the other a resounding whack to the shoulder. Peter – for it was he who was being hit over the head – bashed Edmund across the helmet with an armored glove, then grabbed hold of his arm, which had gone strangely numb.

"There's nothing wrong with the hinges _there_, you beast!" he howled.

Lucy glanced at Tumnus, who looked as baffled as she, then turned to Oreius. "What happened?"

"That one," the Centaur said, gesturing to Edmund, "is hopeless when his weapon does not have a blade. We made the mistake of training with maces today."

"You would think this is a good thing!" Edmund shouted, lifting the visor on his own helmet. "If he can't see, an enemy wouldn't, either!"

"And as a result," Oreius explained to Lucy, "the High King's helmet cannot come off. Your sister has tried to call them to dinner twice already."

"I can see the problem, but I can't get a good angle," Edmund said, raising the mace again. "The pin won't come out."

"Then stop – ow! – hitting it!" Peter barked. Edmund raised his arms and backed off.

"Is it pavenders?" Lucy asked eagerly.

"I do not know, Majesty," the Centaur told her.

"Why don't we have one of the Dwarves look at it?" Peter asked, his voice indistinct and muffled because of the helmet.

"Because they'll laugh," Edmund said crossly. "Oh, hello, Lu. Hold _still_, Peter." He wound up his arm and thunked Peter's helmet again, then examined the faulty hinge. He tugged halfheartedly at it. "Are we having pavenders?" he asked his sister.

"Yes," Lucy told him.

"S'got 'orse," Peter's voice came weakly. "N'ver mind I toldya."

"Fantastic," Edmund said to Lucy. "I'm starved."

"F'you maybe," Peter said. "G'na need straw withiss thing onnahead."

Lucy stood on her tiptoes. "If you could bend that part out, Ed, I think you could open the visor." She grabbed hold of the offending metal and tugged. Peter tottered forward.

"Leave 'lone," Peter said, sounding slightly panicked.

Tumnus glanced at Oreius. "Why haven't you helped them with this? You could have that off his head easily."

Oreius shrugged helplessly. "The High King refused my assistance."

"Why?" Tumnus asked.

"He said," the noble Centaur said with great difficulty, "that since King Edmund was so careless as to damage the helmet, he alone should remove it."

"Oh dear oh dear," Tumnus muttered.

Across the courtyard, Lucy and Edmund had come to a decision. They latched onto opposite ends of the helmet and pulled with all their might. Peter, yanked this way and that in an alarming tug-of-war, tried desperately to keep his balance. "F'r loveof – bothayou – AUGH!"

In the end it took the combined strength of Oreius and two Dwarves to pry the helmet from Peter's head, and despite the thickly padded arming cap underneath, Peter's face sported a variety of bruises. One of the helpful Dwarves – a Red Dwarf by the name of Dresthin – claimed the problem had come about due to inferior craftsmanship and somehow forced Peter into requisitioning new training armor.

-----

The library in Cair Paravel had, unfortunately, fallen prey to all manner of unknowable things in the long years the castle stood empty. Some magic – perhaps something inherent in the castle itself – kept the books from rotting away during the years the castle stood abandoned. However, the library itself seemed a ghost of what it once had been; the long shelves stood half empty, plundered by ghosts and years and time.

Maps were not an unusual thing in Narnia – there was an enormous and beautiful leather map hanging in the room where Peter and Edmund planned campaigns – but a chance comment over dinner had set Tumnus to wondering.

It was Edmund who said it, of course, with that peculiar mix of honesty and acceptance he possessed; as though, having seen the worst the Witch could do, anything else simply failed to surprise him. They had been discussing some of the gaps in recorded history their tutors could not explain. "We honestly can't know," said Edmund, "what the Witch destroyed, can we? All we can do is go with what we have."

It is strange how sometimes, a chance thing said by someone else can set one's own mind working. Though plundered, the library in Cair Paravel was the largest collection of written knowledge Tumnus had ever seen. He knew, as did every Narnian, that the White Witch had desperately tried to stamp out all traditions and memories of the time before her reign; pretending that she alone had ruled Narnia for all time. Tumnus knew this to be false, and he wondered if some things from before her reign had survived. What _did_ they have left?

He found precisely what he was looking for, lost like an afterthought in a small dusty space between the side of a bookcase and the wall. He teased the book out carefully, trying not to damage it. He dusted it, noting the words written in the Narnian Old Language on its spine, and took a deep breath before he opened it.

For a few moments no sound could be heard but the turning of pages; it was as though the Faun had forgotten to breathe. The book was a collection of maps, written on fine parchment paper and annotated in elegant calligraphy. There were painted borders inlaid with gold leaf and thin sheets of vellum that separated the pages.

Tumnus knew, as any Narnian did, the shape of his country like the back of his hand. He also believed, as all Narnians did, that the country itself was surrounded on three sides by impenetrably wild forest.

The book, however, disagreed – and that was the thing that took his breath away. Tumnus could not read it, of course, as the Old Language was one of the first things the White Witch had outlawed, but some of the Centaurs had kept that knowledge alive. This did not matter. They could translate later.

What mattered was that beyond Narnia's familiar borders inked in red and gold, there were _other_ countries – ones he had never heard of. There were rivers and mountains, and little drawings that indicated cities or towns. One city, in a wide expanse of blankness that Tumnus thought could be desert, was detailed with shining gold and silver.

It was impossible – there was no way for these places to _be_. Some of them, like the small castle drawn beneath a mountain that resembled a two-headed giant, were less than a week's walk from the castle in which he stood. He knew this could not be right. Everybody did.

But the book was older than the Witch's lies, and Tumnus had faith in books.

Quietly, reverently, Tumnus closed the volume. He cradled it to his chest and then, with a surprising dash of speed, bolted from the library.

* * *

The Usually Excessive Author's Note:

Took half an hour's research to learn that arming caps are _called_ arming caps; for some reason I thought they were called gambesons. I may have to write a very descriptive scene of someone armoring up, just to use everything I learned while I was making sure I had the right term.

I always get maces and flails confused. A mace is a wooden or metal stick, usually slightly longer than your forearm, with a sharp metal headpiece. A flail is a stick of similar size with a chain bolted to the end, and a spiked metal ball on the end of the chain. The flail's spiked ball is called a morning star, and if you take the chain off the weapon and mount the ball on the end of the stick so that it resembles a mace, it's still called a morning star. An _agricultural_ flail, used for beating grain, is a pair of sticks connected with a chain or a leather strap, and was the inspiration for the weapon. See, fic is educational!

-----

It has occurred to me that I should view Jack's plot holes as places where I can play. Filling in the blanks, so to speak. I have far too many ideas that refuse to leave me alone. I hope you find this interesting – it's bound to be a strange ride.


	3. The Making of Plans

_In which discoveries are discussed, rooms are dismantled, careful consideration is given to past trauma, and Lucy receives a new pair of shoes._

* * *

Important meetings, as a rule, were not held late at night. Then again, breathless book-toting Fauns – loudly pursued by a throng of curious and cheerful Dogs - did not, as a rule, burst into the lounge where the four rulers of Narnia gathered to discuss their day before going to bed. Once the Dogs had been shooed away and Lucy's giggles had been quieted and Tumnus had been told to sit down and given a glass of water and Susan had stopped fussing and the matter had been explained, Peter called an emergency meeting.

-----

The room Peter and Edmund used for campaign planning was as large as a barn. One never knew what sort of creatures would be in one's army, and some early Narnian ruler – nobody knew whom – had seen fit to build with the largest in mind. The southern wall was made entirely of windows, and on the wall opposite hung a map of Narnia twice the size of the quilt on Lucy's bed. In the center of the room was an enormous wooden table, covered tonight with the many lamps and candelabra Peter had requested. Despite the size of the room, the four monarchs, along with General Oreius and Mr. Tumnus, had clustered together to examine the astonishing atlas.

"And that seems to be called Calormen," Oreius concluded. "I am not as well-versed in this language, Sire," Oreius said apologetically. "I preferred to study combat and strategy."

"We're thankful that your people kept this knowledge alive," Susan told him.

"Lucky break for us," Edmund said.

"Anvard," Lucy repeated, tilting her head to better see the book. "What a strange name."

"It sounds familiar," Peter said. "Or it sounds like it _should_ sound familiar, if that makes any sense."

"It does," Edmund said, "but I don't know why."

"It's not Narnian," said Susan, "but close."

"What kind of rulers are we?" Peter asked with frustration. "How can it be that we've never wondered about the land beyond our borders? Not once! We've only taken for granted the things we'd been told – and for all that, we still know dreadfully little about our own country." Peter's bruised face was far too puffy for a good scowl, so he settled for a glare.

"You _have_ been busy, Peter," Lucy said. "Especially with the Ogres."

"We lost so much to the Witch," said Susan, who had long been fascinated by Narnian history. "We're having a horrible time piecing together the bits left to us."

"It's as though she destroyed Narnia's past," Tumnus said.

"In a way, she _has,"_ Susan said. "I hate to think of it like that, but it's true."

"You've spent the most time studying our history," Peter said to Susan. "Are you sure you'd never seen a mention of these places?"

"Not a one," Susan replied.

"I'd never heard of them before, either," Tumnus said. "I don't have it now, of course – not that I was ever too terribly good at geography in the first place—" (here Lucy giggled) "—but I distinctly remember my mapbook showing that Narnia was bordered on three sides by endless forest."

"It is the same here," Susan said, looking up at the leather map on the wall. "And it is in every other atlas I've seen."

"Sire, if I may," Oreius interjected. "I have explored every inch of Narnia and not once seen these lands. Tumnus is correct; beyond our borders lie nothing but a strange wood."

"Strange how?" Susan asked.

"It stinks of enchantment, my Queen," Oreius said. "Everything there is covered with a cold mist."

"Cold," Edmund mused, deep in thought.

"It is very dark," Oreius continued, "and dangerous creatures live in the woods. The sun does not shine there." He shook his head. "That is the only way I can explain it. I spent a tenday in the forests south of the Shuddering Wood, and slew many monsters, but not once did I see the lands marked on this map."

"And yet," Peter said, "this book shows them." He turned a page and looked again at the city Oreius had called Tashbaan. "How can that be?"

"I do not know, Sire," Oreius said.

"It's not made up," Lucy protested. "It _feels_ real."

"Wait a minute," Edmund said, surfacing from his thoughts. He turned to Oreius. "This wood: did it seem familiar in any way?"

"Yes, Majesty. It reminded me of the Witch's winter."

Edmund leaned back in his chair and began to smile, the same way he did when he had solved a particularly difficult logic problem.

"Care to clue us in, Ed?" Peter asked.

"This book is older than the Witch. Maybe this is how things were before." His smile widened, and Peter's face lit up with a similar expression.

"Do you think – could she have done this to Narnia?" Tumnus asked.

"Why wouldn't she?" Edmund asked. "If she wanted to control the country, what better way than to literally cut it off from the rest of the world?"

There was silence as everyone let that thought sink in.

"What happened to those places?" Lucy asked.

"I doubt she destroyed them," Peter said. "If she'd been able to do that, none of us would be here today. Ed's right – we've been hidden somehow."

"Maybe they see what we see," Tumnus said, warming to the idea. "A forest with endless mist."

"They probably know more about Narnia than we do," Susan said, growing excited. "Their people could be related to ours."

"Before we go mounting expeditions," Edmund said with a warning glance at Peter and Oreius, who clearly had been ready to inventory weapons and assemble a battalion or three, "we need to learn what we can about this book. Has the entire library been catalogued?"

"Mostly, Sire," one of Susan's aides – a young faun named Valios – said. "In any case, it seems we would have missed this if not for Master Tumnus."

"Master?" Tumnus repeated quietly. Lucy wrinkled her nose at him.

"My brother is right," Peter said, wholly the High King again. "We need to learn what we can. I want the library to be searched. Remove every stick of furniture. Lift the floorboards, if you must. If there are any other books like this one, I want them brought here."

"As you will, Sire," Valios said.

"I want to speak with anyone who might know anything about this," Peter continued. "I don't care what it is – stories their parents told them before they went to sleep, anything. I want all of you to ask everyone you know if anyone remembers other countries before the Winter came. Someone has to know something."

"There are some historians left amongst my people," Oreius said. "Most went into hiding from the Witch. I can send for them, Sire, if you wish."

"Yes, please, Oreius," Peter said.

"If you still want an expedition," Susan said with a smile, "I've just had an idea."

"Oh?" Peter asked. "Tell us."

So she did.

If you think it strange that a battle-hardened Centaur and a High King could both look as delighted as schoolboys on the first day of vacation, clearly you have never been to Narnia.

-----

Queen Susan paused briefly, bow in hand, to admire the view of the ocean from a well-placed window. A fine Narnian morning would never stop being remarkable. She watched the gulls' graceful flight over the waves and smiled, secretly, to herself. Last night the plans had been made, and today they would be carried out. She thought that Edmund was likely correct, and honestly believed they would find a way to break this last enchantment. New countries would mean new people to meet, and hopefully a change from the dreadful and near-constant fighting her brothers often faced. More than that, however, she hoped the people in those other countries had knowledge of her own.

Susan adjusted the quiver of arrows on her back. She'd taken breakfast early in order to make time for some archery practice; she planned to spend the day getting started on dismantling, and then reorganizing, the library. It was a project she'd been contemplating for some time, but now that everyone else was as interested as she was in what might be found, it was time to begin.

The muffled thud of a pair of boots, accompanied by the clickety-clack of animal claws on the floor, interrupted her reverie. Susan smiled as Peter, deep in an animated conversation with a large Alsatian, approached.

"... and then the great oaf hit me across the shoulder!"

"Are you purple and green there, too?" the Dog asked. "Oh! Good morning, Majesty," it said to Susan, sitting politely.

"Yes!" Peter told the dog. "He really can hit."

"Good morning, cousin," Susan said, kneeling so that she could talk to the Dog without it having to crane its head up. "Has the King my brother been complaining overmuch?"

"No more than usual," the Dog, whose name was Loukas, replied.

"Morning to you too, Su," Peter grumbled. "Have you seen my face?"

"Hello, Peter. I couldn't miss it," she assured him, gracefully rising to her feet. "Wasn't it just last week that you were complaining about Edmund holding back in practice?"

"He seems to be over that particular problem," Peter said with chagrin.

"He took his lessoning to heart, Sire," Loukas said, running his tongue out in a dog-smile. "Then he took it to your head."

"I'm glad he's on our side," Peter said. Then, to Susan, "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," she told him. "Will you come with us, cousin?" she asked the Dog.

"If you'll have me, Majesty," he replied, standing to follow them.

"Are you sure you're well enough to leave today?" Susan asked solicitously, though her eyes held mischief. "We can postpone your expedition another week, if your head still hurts."

"We'll do no such thing," Peter said, shouldering a heavy door open (with his _left_ shoulder, not his right) and holding it for Susan and the dog.

"How did they get the helmet off?" Loukas asked.

"By the Lion's mane, Sire!" a passing Dwarf yelped in surprise. "What happened to your face?"

"I wonder if the Kings in all those other countries get this much backtalk," Peter asked himself.

-----

The first queenly skill Susan Pevensie had learned was the ability to make order out of chaos.

After the coronation, many of the Narnians desperately wanted to stay in Cair Paravel. Much effort was made to look busy and important until Peter called everyone into the throne room and announced that anyone who wished to stay in the castle could, as long as something was found for them to do. This proved to be a mixed blessing, since there was never a lack of helping hands, or paws, or hooves, but there was also absolute bedlam and anything that needed doing took twice as long with all the assistance, advice, and interruption.

This was why Susan had, eventually, taken to joining Peter and Edmund (she convinced Lucy to go too) when Oreius taught them the finer points of organizing and moving an army. It was not that different, really; keeping soldiers in line and out of harm's way had many things in common with getting _anything_ accomplished in Cair Paravel.

For that matter, Susan thought, ducking as a pair of Talking Geese flew by, only a Narnian would be able to see that what was happening in the library only resembled bedlam.

Those who could go about on two legs and grasp with hands or paws were busy dusting and gathering books. From there they were taken to another room where the books were indexed and organized. The smaller four-footed animals toted carts full of books, or carried them in baskets and panniers strapped to their backs. Larger and more powerfully built beasts – several Talking Horses and a bull moose named Hangik – had coordinated with Squirrels and Hares to remove the enormous wooden shelves. The large animals, wearing makeshift harnesses mostly made from the curtain-cords, pulled the shelves; the small ones passed a series of wine-corks and sliced-up bits of wooden poles underneath the heavy furniture so that it could be rolled out.

In the center of this madness stood Susan, serenely in control with a smile lighting her face, marking down notes on a sheaf of parchment, surrounded by bleatings and brayings and barkings, tapping her heels in time to the working songs, directing the Satyrs this way, the Chipmunks that way, and ensuring the Moose didn't step on anyone. She did not mind in the slightest that Peter and Edmund would soon be leaving; she didn't need any help. She could handle _this_ army. She was a Queen, after all.

-----

"Sire, it is deserted," said Axet the griffon. "We explored the area thoroughly and found nothing."

"Likely her followers think it too obvious a place," Oreius said. "I would still recommend a full guard, but I doubt we'll encounter any combat."

"Of course," Peter said. "I'll leave that to you, if that is all right." The Centaur nodded, then turned aside and spoke with a few of his sergeants.

"The ground has dried," Axet continued. "The stone foundations still stand, but the rest of the place fell in on itself. You'll need to bring diggers."

"Dwarves, I think," Peter said, "and some Moles too. Ed, can you handle that? The Dwarves seem to like you better."

"Got your face to thank for that," Edmund said, writing some notes. "While I'm at it, want me to sort out transportation for the Moles? It'd be an awfully long walk for them."

Peter grinned. "Yes, thank you."

The door creaked open and Loukas put his big furry head into the room. "Sire? Your sister the Queen is here."

"Let her in, please," Edmund said, lifting a large canvas-wrapped package from the floor to the table. Peter stared at him curiously. "You know she'd never forgive us if we didn't bring her along," Edmund explained.

"It'll be good to have her," Peter agreed. He pointed at the bundle. "I meant that. What is that?"

"You'll see."

When Lucy came in, the assembled Creatures bowed. She gave them a formal curtsey in response. Lucy was not one to stand on ceremony, feeling that there was little difference between herself and her subjects; after some serious thought she had decided that the best way to handle such honors was to accept them by performing one in return.

"When are you leaving?" Lucy asked, skipping the hellos and how-are-yous entirely. "Susan said it wouldn't be for another day or two, but there's a great to-do outside in the arming grounds and when I asked Drisket about it—"

"Sit down and breathe, Lu," Peter said, rising and pulling out a chair for her. She did.

"We'll be leaving tomorrow morning," Edmund said, trying to stop the predictable flood of Lucy-questions before they started. He pushed the bundle down the table to her. "This is for you."

"What is it?"

"You'd find out faster if you opened it," Edmund said, so she did.

Inside Lucy found a beautiful pair of leather riding boots. They were bright red, inlaid with silver, and the leather was intricately worked with patterns of flowers and leaves.

"Philip said your riding lessons were going well," Edmund explained. "I thought that if you were going to come along tomorrow, you should have new boots for it."

"They're beautiful, Ed!" Lucy squealed. She immediately pulled her sandals off and slid the new boots on. "But a bit big," she said, twisting her face in the distinctive way that, her brothers knew, meant she was wriggling her toes.

"They'll fit with socks under," Peter smiled. "Since you've been riding Aelf during your lessons, ask him if he'll take you tomorrow."

"I'm sure he will," Lucy said. "He was sad because he thought he'd have to stay home."

"Go tell him," Peter told her, "and then pack your things. We'll only be gone a few days, but we're leaving first thing in the morning so I want you to have everything ready before you go to bed."

"I will," she promised.

"You'd better," Edmund warned. "I'm going to come in and check."

"I will!" she repeated, and with that she darted out of the room, her sandals forgotten on the table.

"Tumnus will think you hate him, what with you giving Lucy those heavy boots," Peter smiled. "She'll make him carry them all over Narnia when they go on their walks. You know she's not going to wear anything else until she outgrows them."

"I didn't even think of that," Edmund said, completely crestfallen. "I'll have to apologize to him. The Lion knows he'd never say anything about it to anybody."

"He isn't going with us," Peter said firmly, rising to his feet. "I've already asked him to help Susan while we're gone." He crossed the room, ran a hand over the map, and returned. A pacing Peter, Edmund knew, was a Peter trying to untangle complicated thoughts.

"Lucy isn't going to like that," Edmund warned.

"She can take it up with me," Peter said, still in motion. "Those gold tips on his horns aren't for decoration. I don't think he ever told her what happened to him there and I won't have it on my conscience to make him relive any of it."

"He hasn't said anything to her," Edmund said. "We've talked about it, he and I. He said she's not ready to know it yet, and he'll know she is when she asks. Then he'll tell her everything she wants to know." He let his thoughts take him for a moment. "You know, he's not angry with me at all."

"Aslan forgave you," Peter pointed out. "The rest of us could hardly do less."

"That's what Tumnus said," Edmund replied. "But I still feel as though I need to make it up to everyone."

"And that's why I won't stop you from going," Peter said, stopping to put a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Who knows? You might find something the rest of us miss."

* * *

Annotation Is Fun: a proliferation of notes for Chapter Three.

_On names:_  
Someone out there, please get the reference to a moose named Hank. (O!) Loukas and Aelf are tributes to friends' pets who passed away recently. The names are translated from Greek and Old English, respectively, and are older versions of the animals' actual names. I'm having a hell of a time coming up with names that sound Narnian. If anything sticks out painfully, let me know.

_On maps:_  
I'm using a real-world reinterpretation for my own purposes, here. The maps of post-Jadis Narnia resemble the ones drawn up for the movie. The maps from Tumnus' atlas resemble those that went with the books. That works out almost too conveniently.

_Lastly, a shout-out, and forget what you know about the heigh-hos:_  
Narnians absolutely would sing working songs, and they'd do it a million times better than those silly dwarves from Snow White. Narnians love singing – Jack mentions it all the time – so I figure anything with an audible rhythm gets a song. Rowing, marching, timing a gang of squirrels moving rollers, whatever. I freely admit to stealing this idea from Elecktrum, whose depiction of Peter singing marching songs to Philip the Horse utterly tickled me. Go read Elecktrum's stories, if you haven't yet. They are superb.


	4. A Departure and an Arrival

_In which a Horse's tail is unfairly ignored, the High King evades a threat, Edmund leads a song, and Tumnus is offered lessons._

* * *

"... and that should be the lot."

"Flowers," the small Horse said.

"What?"

"I was supposed to get _flowers._ For my _tail_."

"Don't see flowers," the Dwarf said, checking a list. "Says here you're to be fitted with a bridle, saddle an' pad, special note below saddle says be sure the leathers are shortened and I've already done that, breast band, girth strap size small, and a pommel bag for her Majesty's odds and ends. Nothing about flowers."

"There should be," the Horse said indignantly. "She promised!"

"That's between you and her Majesty," the Dwarf said.

"Then can I have a bell for my bridle?"

"Bells? Bells!? This isn't a May-ride, you daft beast!" The Dwarf slapped the Horse on the flank perhaps a little harder than was necessary. "Off with you!"

The fussy little Horse offed with celerity.

"Valiant, hell," the Dwarf muttered to himself. "He should hope she's Lucy the Patient. Next!"

-------

"For the last time, Su, yes," Peter laughed. "I'll keep her next to me the whole time."

"Unless there's fighting. Then you put her somewhere safe."

"There won't be any fights! Axet's scouts and the Owls have been patrolling the place non-stop. They haven't seen anybody."

"And you won't let her wander off," Susan warned.

"I won't _let_ her, no. Whether she does that on her own is something else entirely."

"If you lose her, Peter Pevensie, I'll—"

"Haven't you got a kingdom to run single-handed?"

"Part of running a kingdom is ensuring its Kings keep their word," she countered.

"Su, you know I love you, right?" Peter asked.

"Yes, but that—"

"And you know I've fought giants, right?"

"How could I forget?"

"Then let me assure you that I mean it with all the love in my heart when I say I would rather attempt unarmed single combat with a giant than face your wrath after misplacing Lucy. She'll be fine. We all will. I promise."

"You're incorrigible, Peter!" Susan hugged her brother. "Lion watch you."

"And you," King Peter said, with a smile nearly as bright as the Lion's mane.

-----

"But why?" Lucy asked again. "You always come with me."

"Not this time," the Faun told her, lifting the packed saddlebags. "I've been given – ooh, but those are heavy," he grunted, swinging the bags over a shoulder. "There's too much to do here."

"You've been given what?" Lucy asked, curiously.

"Responsibilities," he said, shifting the bag. "I'm to collect stories of before the winter from any Beast who has them."

"But anybody could do that," she protested, running ahead of her friend to hold the doors open for him. The castle courtyard – what Peter called his staging area – was awash in the chaos which signaled the first phase of a Narnian plan.

"Would anybody else get an Elephant's footprint for you?" he asked.

"You're expecting Elephants?"

"Yes. And the Centaurs Oreius sent for. And some Dwarves. I'm not sure what else, really."

"Perhaps I should stay."

"Aelf would be terribly disappointed," Tumnus warned. "And I'd have carried these bags all the way out here for nothing." He paused. "Where _is_ that Horse?"

"I don't see him," Lucy said, standing on tiptoe and shading her eyes with a hand.

"We'll find him," Tumnus said, striking off in a more-or-less random direction through the crowd. Lucy followed at a jog, her feet feeling large and heavy in her new riding boots. The creatures they passed called out cheery good-mornings to Queen Lucy and Master Tumnus.

"Why must they keep calling me that?" he asked, flustered.

"You get used to titles," Lucy said, flagging down a passing Centaur. "Have you seen Aelf the Horse?" she asked her.

"The Horses are all near the tackbuilding, Majesty," the Centaur said.

"Thank you!" Lucy called, changing direction and weaving through the crowd. Tumnus followed easily enough; Fauns may not be the strongest creatures in the world, but they move quickly, and Lucy did not share Susan's predilection to overpacking.

"Ah!" Tumnus finally said. "Is that him, there?"

"Yes. He looks awfully sad."

They made their way to a small grey-speckled Horse whose head was slumped in a pout. He perked up as Lucy approached, and when she threw her arms around his neck he gave her a horse's hug, pressing her slim shoulder between his head and chest.

"I've been waiting for a terribly long time, Queen Lucy," he said. "Good morning, Master Tumnus."

"Was it five minutes or ten?" she asked, laughing.

"Fifteen, and that Dwarf was rude! Am I carrying you as well?" the horse asked Tumnus.

"Not today, cousin," the Faun said, sliding the saddlebags off his shoulder. "Just these." Aelf turned his side to Tumnus, who threw the bags on and set to securing them in place.

"He isn't going with us," Lucy told Aelf. "They gave him a _responsibility_."

"How dreadful," the Horse said.

"It is not," Tumnus said. "I'm happy they asked. Lucy, hand me your quiver." He fixed it to the front of the saddle. "Is everything balanced, Aelf?"

"But don't you wish you could come with us instead?" Lucy asked.

"Perfectly," Aelf said. "I can hardly feel it."

"Good," Tumnus said to the Horse. Then, to Lucy, "Of the two of us, I think the more valiant should go on the adventure."

"But—"

Just then a horn sounded, clear and sharp. Everyone who was not setting out that day scurried to the edges of the yard. Those who were going – Centaurs, large Cats, Fauns, Satyrs, Dogs, Dwarves, Hangik the Moose, and others besides – arranged themselves.

"That's your cue," Tumnus said. "You're to ride with Peter and Edmund up at the front."

Lucy threw herself at her dearest friend in a fierce hug. "I do so wish you were coming with us," she told his neck. "It isn't fair that you have to stay behind. And I'll miss you terribly while we're gone."

"It won't be more than a week," the Faun said reassuringly. "And you'll have lots of things to tell me when you get back."

"I'll bring you a present."

"You don't have to."

"Then I'll bring two!"

"You really needn't—"

"Three," she warned.

"Fine, fine! And you'd better put flowers in Aelf's tail or he'll never forgive you."

"I will," she said, finally letting go.

Tumnus laced his fingers together to help Lucy into the saddle. He handed up her bow, which she slung over a shoulder.

"Enjoy yourself, Lucy Pevensie," he said, squeezing her knee. "Lion keep you."

"And you," she said, missing him already.

-----

Lucy waved to Susan and Tumnus, who looked very small and alone on the steps leading up to the side entrance of the castle. They waved back. Aelf shifted nervously beneath her, swishing his long – and still, sadly, un-flowered – tail; it was his first time riding with a military company, too. Suddenly Lucy wanted nothing more than to leap off the Horse and run back inside. It wasn't the first time her family had been separated, but it felt very different to do the leaving. She felt small and lost amidst the jostling army.

With a snort, Philip brought Edmund up next to them.

"Buck up, Lu," Edmund said. "You always wanted to come along. Adventures and excitement, remember?" Edmund nodded to Peter who, with a gentle squeeze of the heels (for one does not kick a _Talking_ Horse), led the whole company on their way.

They passed through the great gate set in the courtyard wall. Lucy turned and looked back, one last time, at the two figures who still stood on the stairs. The Horses and Centaurs set the pace, stepping together in a smart rhythm. A gust of wind unfurled a golden banner with a proud Lion, and at the sight Lucy felt stronger. She urged Aelf ahead, and when Philip saw them he made space between himself and Peter's mount. Lucy gave Peter a brave smile; he smiled back.

"Care to start us off, Ed?" Peter asked.

"Does the road wind up-hill all the way?" Edmund shouted.

"Yes, to the very end!" the army roared.

"Will the journey take the whole long day?" Peter and Lucy joined in.

"From morn to night, my friends!"

-----

Dinner at Cair Paravel that night was a rather subdued affair. Tumnus had done his able best to keep Queen Susan laughing. When she was amused, he knew, she was too busy to worry, and with all three of her siblings away from home she would do little else. Between his jokes, they discussed the fourteen books written in the Old Language which had been found in the library. It was fortunate Peter had ordered the floor to be taken up, as these volumes were found scattered beneath it. They were wrapped in cloth and tied with twine and gave every indication that whoever had hidden them knew danger lay ahead.

"If only we could read them!" Tumnus said, paging through what looked to be a hastily-written journal.

"But you know the Old Language," Susan said, confused. "You've taught Lucy songs in it, haven't you?"

"Only spoken," the Faun explained, closing the journal and reaching for another book. "I don't know how to read it. I had rather hoped that Oreius could teach it to me, but he's been far too busy these past few days."

"I'll see to it that he does when he returns," Susan promised.

"Thank you."

They were interrupted, quite suddenly, by a rather star-struck young Deer announcing that the first of the Centaur historians had arrived.

"Bring him in," Susan said, "and send for the sort of refreshments a Centaur would like best."

-----

The Centaur, named Cloudstrike, was a breathtaking individual. Susan's first thought was that she'd never seen a Centaur so old; Tumnus' was that he'd never seen one so impressive. The Centaur's horse-body, which reminded Susan of a draft-horse, was a faded grey shot through with white; his tail and close-trimmed beard were snowy white. He seemed almost otherworldly, as though he'd spent so much time studying the stars he had nearly become one.

Susan dropped to a deep, formal curtsey, and Tumnus bowed as best he knew how. He was slightly out of practice; the coronation had been their last formal event, and each of the Pevensies had, at one point or another, taken him aside and explained they wouldn't hear of such a good friend doing things like that all the time. At this moment Tumnus dearly wished they hadn't, because in the presence of such a distinguished Centaur he felt rather out of place.

"Queen Susan," Cloudstrike said, inclining his head. "Master Tumnus. I am delighted to finally meet you."

"Master?" Tumnus whispered, pained. "Coming from _him_ that sounds wrong." Susan winked.

"I must apologize, Master Cloudstrike," Susan said, rising and taking the Centaur's outstretched hands. "My royal brothers and sister are away on an errand. We had hoped they would return before your arrival."

"It is no matter," Cloudstrike said courteously. "It is you, Majesty, I had most hoped to speak with."

Three Dwarves and a Faun filed into the room, staggering under the weight of heavily stacked refreshment trays. They brought their trays over to a tall table, with two tall chairs next to it – because Centaurs prefer to stand – and the Dwarves had to wait and pass the trays up to the Faun, who was the only one of the group that could reach the tabletop.

"Would you care for some refreshment, Master?" Susan asked.

The centaur nodded. "I would like to see the books, if you have them with you."

"Of course," Susan said. "Tumnus, could you please get them?"

Relieved at finally having something to do – other than hopelessly trying to remember the finer points of protocol – Tumnus went back to the much smaller dinner table and collected the books. He brought them up to the table, and – oh dear. Was he supposed to wait for Susan to seat herself? He thought so.

Susan smiled gently. "I am afraid, Master Cloudstrike, that we've had little occasion for formality here. We all are terribly out of practice."

"My dear," the Centaur said, "I would prefer to dispense with it entirely. I have spent a hundred years alone in the forest, and then when Aslan broke the Witch's winter and I returned to my people, I have heard nothing but formalities." He smiled. "And you, little cousin," he said to Tumnus, "please be comfortable. I should like for us all to be friends."

Tumnus took a seat and started pouring the tea. Before too long the three of them were chattering away – not the way old friends would, exactly, but the way students would with a distinguished professor. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then the Centaur got them to business.

"Do either of you know the Old Language?" Cloudstrike asked, opening one of the books.

"Only how to speak it," Tumnus said, "and that was risk enough."

The Centaur nodded. "More risk than many would take; I remember that even speaking it was punishable by death." He slid the book down the table so it rested between them. "Would you like to learn to read it?"

"Yes!" Tumnus blurted.

Cloudstrike chuckled softly to himself. "And you, Majesty?"

"I fear I'd be a much slower study than Tumnus," Susan said. "I don't know how to speak it."

"I think, between the two of us," Cloudstrike said, nodding at the Faun, "we can teach you quickly enough."

* * *

You know the drill, lotsa notes.

_On poetry in unison:_  
The marching song our heroes sing as they set out is adapted from a poem titled 'Uphill' by Christina Georgina Rossetti. The rest of it deals with going to an inn, which I'm not sure they have in Narnia anymore.

_On alphabets:_  
Did any of you notice, in the movie, the writing on the Stone Table? There's similar stuff in some of the book illustrations. I think the Old Language looks like that when it's written. I haven't yet worked out where it comes from, but it makes sense for Narnia to be bilingual: the English came from Frank and Helen, and the Old Language is purely Narnian. I figure the people in Archenland know both as well, and in Calormen they'd address Narnians and Archenlanders in English. Two barbarians with one stone, and all.

_On aged Centaurs:_  
In my mind, the human half of Cloudstrike looks like Richard Harris' portrayal of Marcus Aurelius in Gladiator. The horse half looks like a Percheron.

_On sassy, silly Horses:_  
As I mentioned in the previous chapter, Aelf is a tribute to my friend's late horse, Alf. He was a beautiful Polish Arabian, fast, small, a bit of a spaz, and terrified of things like horse-balls and wind. I haven't yet worked out Aelf's full horse-name, because I really don't know how to make onomatopoeia that sounds like a horse who's terrified and embarrassed at the same time. Alf's two most common moods were embarrafied and I'M PRETTY LOOK AT ME!


	5. Things Forgotten Underground

_In which Lucy learns something unpleasant about a friend, Peter makes a mess of interfamily diplomacy, Susan demonstrates the difference between gentleness and helplessness, and many things long forgotten come to light.  
_

* * *

The White Witch's castle had, as Tumnus and Edmund explained a few days ago in council, been made mostly of ice. When her power was broken it melted, turning the surrounding area to a festering mud pit that had since dried but was still bare of grass or flowers. The digging teams announced that it seemed to have been built over a much older structure, because some stone foundations still stood, and they were confident that once the top layers of earth were removed they would be able to find anything the Witch had left behind. 

Their work started almost as soon as they arrived, late in the afternoon of the third day. This sounds like an inconvenience but actually was not; Dwarves aren't much bothered by darkness and Moles honestly prefer it. Most of that afternoon was spent marking out ground, assigning teams to help move the earth the diggers removed, and attending to the million other things a project this size required. Nobody got started until well after the sun set, but once they did, the rhythmic working songs of the Dwarves would go on all night.

Lucy had never been on a military outing like this before. Although she and Aelf were bone-tired from the steady travel, they agreed that it felt like a _good_ kind of tired which made them appreciate food and sleep much more than they ordinarily would. To her delight, Lucy learned that travel meant she spent more time grooming Aelf than herself, and sleeping in her clothes with her boots shucked off, and counting stars as she fell asleep, and waking when the first rays of the sun landed on the ground. For meals Lucy had Narnian camp rations, which are excellent, and Aelf's grazing was complemented by a mix of oats and grains he liked so much he asked why they couldn't eat them at home, too. He was disappointed when Philip explained that it was only a _traveling_ food, and if a Horse ate it all the time at home it would find itself growing quite fat. Peter and Edmund frequently asked how she was holding up, and both were amused – in a way that implied they knew better – when Lucy announced she felt she could go on like this for _months_.

------

Lucy sat snuggled against Aelf's warm body, at a comfortable distance from their small campfire. She'd decided she preferred a sleeping roll on the ground to hammocks slung in a tent, as this way she could see the stars. Off in the distance she could see the torches lit to aid the diggers, and the faraway sounds of pick and shovel and song mixed nicely with the campfire's crackle. Aelf's tail flowed over her lap, and as she combed it she braided flowers into it.

"That is so much better," the little Horse sighed with contentment. "And you did promise."

"I know," Lucy said absent-mindedly; her hands moved by themselves and her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

"An apple for your thoughts?"

"One of the songs Mr. Tumnus taught me. Saddle to me my milk-white steed! Oh, go and fetch my pony!"

"That sounds like me!" the little Horse exclaimed delightedly, mussing Lucy's hair with his velvety nose.

"That I may ride and sing 'long side of the folk of the old north forest!"

"I like that."

"I'd like to do that, just run away and stay in the forest."

"Why don't you?"

"Queens can't run off like that," she sighed. "At least, that's what Ed tells me every time I ask if I can."

"That's no fun," the Horse said.

"Maybe he'll let me someday. And we can bring Mr. Tumnus along, although I doubt he'd want to ride you."

"Why doesn't he? I don't _mind,_ you know. He needs to practice it – the two times we've taken him he nearly fell off."

"That might be why," Lucy mused. "But the last time I asked about it, he told me that if a Faun couldn't keep up with a Horse, he was eating too much."

"I wish King Peter had let him come," Aelf said, resting his nose on Lucy's shoulder. "He never tells me how silly I am."

"People say that because you _are_ silly."

The Horse snorted indignantly.

"I've been wondering and wondering about it," Lucy said. "He didn't seem disappointed at all when we left – almost relieved."

"Maybe your brother-Kings would know," the small Horse suggested. "You should ask."

"I think I will," Lucy said, arranging Aelf's tail neatly out of the way before getting up. "I'll put the rest of these flowers in your mane when I get back."

"Lucy?" the Horse called, before she'd gotten more than ten bare-foot paces from the fire.

"Yes?"

"I've heard that hitting King Peter over the head works if he is being difficult. Perhaps you should try it."

----------

"This one is a journal," Tumnus told Susan, "like you thought." He'd been going over the book slowly, translating the Old Narnian alphabet into the one he was more familiar with, speaking the words as he went. To Susan it sounded ancient and otherworldly, more like a chant than (she assumed) a list of the day's events.

Susan was endlessly copying the strange alphabet down, wanting to be letter-perfect in writing it. Cloudstrike, who had provided both of them with their sources, was discussing the finer points of library organization with a team of Owls who'd been eager to take the job.

"Do you know who it belongs to?"

"There aren't any names yet," Tumnus replied, still focused on his translation. "I know it was a man of some importance. It seems he was an ambassador. Would you like to read one of the more interesting passages?"

"Yes, please," Susan said.

Tumnus riffled through his stack of pages and handed a few to Susan. He took a blank page from a waiting pile, dipped his pen, and set back to the journal. His rough voice softly repeating those alien syllables, thought Susan, made the twilit room feel like it belonged to a different world. She wondered what Old Narnia was like, and then realized with a self-deprecating smile the answer lay in her hands.

Susan read...

_Let us recapitulate the day: met several Calormene men of letters, one of whom asked me whether one could go to Ettinsmoor by a land route (no doubt he took Ettinsmoor to be an island); disputed generously with an advisor of the Tisroc, who, to each of my objections, replied: 'I represent the cause of great people,' which implies that our own laws are formed by knaves; greeted some twenty persons, with fifteen of whom I am not acquainted; distributed handshakes in the same proportion, and this without having first taken the precaution of buying gloves; to kill time, during a shower, went to see an acrobat, who begged me repeatedly to sponsor her in the manner to which she was accustomed; paid court to a Tarkaan who, while dismissing me, said to me: 'Perhaps you would do well to apply to Zadeerah; he is the most unusual of my advisors; together with him, perhaps, you would get somewhere. Go to see him, and after that we'll see;' boasted (why!) of several vile actions which I have never committed, and faint-heartedly denied some other misdeeds which I accomplished with joy, an error of bravado, an offense against human respect; refused a friend an easy service, and gave a recommendation to a perfect clown; oh, isn't that enough?_

Susan put the pages down. "If I didn't know better I'd say I was reading Ed's journal."

"You read his journal?"

Susan coughed. "No," she said hastily, "but this does sound rather like him, doesn't it?"

"It does," Tumnus agreed. Then, after a pause, "I won't tell him anything."

"Thank you."

---------

"Well, Ed?" Peter asked.

"I'm thinking," Edmund said, leaning back with a grunt against a rolled-up bedroll with Philip's saddle over it. He dipped a rag in a pot of oil, wiping traveling dirt from Philip's bridle.

"While the night's young, brother mine?" Peter asked, studying his sword Rhindon. His face, now faded to a mottled yellow-green, reflected most alarmingly in the firelight.

"Pawn to echo-five," Edmund finally decided.

"Pawn at dog-four takes pawn at echo-five," Peter countered, taking a whetstone and drawing it down the sharp edge of the sword.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Phillip, grazing nearby, had quite literally kept one ear perked to listen to the game. He often listened in on a chess game, real or imagined, and by now had become quite skilled at strategy. Edmund kept promising to one day make a set of chessmen the Horse could move by picking them up with his lips.

"Can't be undone," Edmund told the Horse. "Knight at chant-six takes pawn at echo-five."

"Damn!" Peter swore.

"Perhaps you should leave the strategy to _my_ king, Sire," Philip said.

"Queen to beer-five," Peter said, spitting on the blade and running the stone down again.

Edmund tsked and shook his head. Philip neighed mournfully.

"You two!" Peter laughed. "If you were this horrible when we plan maneuvers—"

"Our army thinks on its feet," Edmund snorted. "Chessmen don't, and that's your problem. Bishop to glass-seven."

"—then I'd – hello, Lu," Peter said as she approached. "How is your pony?"

"Fine, and he does wish you wouldn't call him that. Fourteen hands two is a pony and he's fourteen-_three._"

"If you insist," Peter said. He studied her for a moment. "Everything all right?"

"I don't know," Lucy said.

"Queen to beer-three," Peter said. He held out an arm and Lucy curled at his side. "What's the matter?"

"Did you tell Mr. Tumnus not to come along?"

Peter and Edmund exchanged warning glances, each trying to persuade the other to say – or perhaps not say – something important.

"Yes," he said, "I did."

"Why?"

"I didn't think he'd want to come back here, after what happened."

"What do you mean? He told me he couldn't remember being stone."

"Not that," Peter said. "That wasn't the problem at all."

"Then what?"

"It's what happened before."

Lucy stilled at his side. "What do you mean, before? When they cut his horns off?"

"Horns aren't made of wood, Lu. That was probably the worst pain he'd felt in his life." Peter glanced up at Edmund, who nodded, then looked away – at the trees, at his feet stacked one atop the other in front of the fire, anywhere but Lucy. "Especially since it was done slowly."

Lucy buried her face in Peter's chest, crying softly. "He never said."

"He probably didn't want to upset you. That was a long time ago."

"He never said," she sniffled.

"I didn't want to take the chance," Peter said gently, "of bringing it all back to him. He's been through quite enough for us – I'd like him to forget it if he can. I didn't know how being here would affect him and honestly I didn't want to find out."

Lucy stayed nestled against her brother, motionless, for a moment longer. Then she sat up. "You told me nothing bad happened," she said.

"What? When?"

"Afterwards. You said that he was okay. He couldn't have been."

"I didn't want to upset you," Peter said, trying to pull Lucy back to him.

She shrugged him off roughly. "I can understand _he_ didn't – if he was on fire he'd only say it was warm out – but you should have told me! And all this time I've gone around like it was nothing at all – what he must think of me – you should have _said_ something!" Her tears were falling freely now, and Peter ached to see her so inconsolable.

"I'm sorry," Peter said.

Without another word, Lucy scampered to her feet and ran away.

"Rook to glass-two," Edmund said, after some time. "Check and mate."

"Hang the game."

"Wasn't what I meant. You've got some things to learn about diplomacy, brother mine."

"I told her the truth! Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

"You have to tell it to her in a way that doesn't hurt her."

"Is that even possible?" Peter snapped.

"I don't know," Edmund said softly. "Sorry. Probably not."

"It's all right. In your expert opinion, then: should I go after her?"

Edmund shook his head. "She needs some time to sort things through. She'll be all right in the morning."

--------

Tumnus yawned again and ran a hand through his disorderly hair. Lucy was the only one who seemed interested in brushing it; he was quite content to let it fall as it wished.

Susan, pouring the tea, smiled. "Would you like me to lock the books away at night so you can sleep?"

"Ask me in another few days and I might – thank you," he said as Susan handed him a teacup, "I might say yes then. Not that you're one to talk." He knocked on the wooden table in pantomine. "Tumnus dear, if you're still up, I finished the rest of the papers and do you have any more? I was almost asleep, you know!"

"You were sitting in your chair reading!"

"Slowly," he protested, "slowly! I must have read the same page five times."

"I feel," Susan said, quieting, "as though we shouldn't be laughing about this. All of the people who wrote these books – we don't know what happened to them."

"It's probably better for us that we don't," Tumnus said thoughtfully. "You came in at the end," he said, "so it's different for you. Her ways were all I knew until Lucy arrived. And even then—" here he touched his gold horn-tips "—I hadn't seen the worst of it. There was no limit to her cruelty."

--------

Lucy was happy that she had her own campfire; she couldn't have been able to handle being around anyone else that night. She clung to Aelf's neck and cried, without telling him what the matter was; to his credit, he did not pry.

That night she tried to sleep but couldn't. She lay gazing at the Ship and the Leopard, turning her thoughts over and over. She didn't want to be out on this expedition anymore; she didn't want to be alone but she certainly didn't want to talk to Peter or Edmund; she didn't want to sleep because when she closed her eyes all she saw was Tumnus, bruised and blooded, turning back to flesh and collapsing bonelessly. She wished desperately there was someone around she could talk to, someone who knew her and Tumnus too and could maybe make sense of things. But the Witch's castle was so remote, except for—

Of course! Lucy sat up. The eastern sky glowed with false dawn, which meant there'd be an hour or two before the sun properly came up. She woke Aelf and tacked him as quietly as she could, telling him only that they needed to go visit a friend. The little Horse, attuned to his queen's moods, respectfully stayed quiet.

Swiftly, silently, Queen Lucy the Valiant slipped away. Above her, the eastern horizon changed from grey to pink, and beneath the sky the camp was eerily silent.

-------

"Sires, please," Oreius said, looking as solemn as he had when news came of Aslan's death four years ago. "Wake yourselves."

"S'matter, Oreius?" Peter asked sleepily. "Find something?"

"Yes." The tone of the Centaur's voice had the two kings out of their bedrolls and into their boots in a matter of seconds.

"We have not dug deeper," Oreius said, leading his kings through the camp, "so as not to – nobody wanted to disturb them."

"Them?" Edmund echoed.

"We dug outwards after that and kept finding more. We don't know how many there are." The Centaur grimaced, for a second, before regaining his composure, and that, more than anything else, scared the young kings. "They're _everywhere,_ Majesties."

"What are you talking about, Oreius?" Peter whispered, not sure he wanted to know.

"See for yourself," the Centaur said, as they reached the top of the last hill overlooking the excavation site.

-------

"I never realized," Susan said, "how many horrible things she did. I almost felt that since things are better now, it made up for it – but we can't change the past, can we?"

"All we have is today," said the Faun, "so best to make it good."

Just then they were interrupted by the most shocked-looking Dwarf both Susan and Tumnus had ever seen. Considering the things that usually went on in Cair Paravel, and the steadfastness of Dwarves, this was something indeed.

"Majesty," said he, "there's a _man_ come to see you."

"A what?" Tumnus asked, sure he had heard incorrectly.

"A man!" repeated the Dwarf. "A son of Adam!"

"Just one?" Tumnus asked.

"But that's impossible!" Susan said, confused.

"It isn't," the Dwarf told her. "He's here, and wishes to meet you."

"Where did he come from?"

"I don't know," the Dwarf said. "He wouldn't answer our questions – not even to tell us his name – and when I told him that our Queen was in residence he said he must speak to you at once. Will you see him?"

"Of course," Susan said, rising. "I'll meet him in the throne room."

---------

"I can't believe it," Peter said, shocked. "I – by the Lion, I had no idea."

"Neither did I," Edmund said, "and I've _been_ here. She must have been at it for..."

"A hundred years," Oreius finished softly. Peter dropped to his knees. Edmund wept openly, and Oreius laid a comforting hand on his back.

Every inch of exposed ground was strewn with an endless array of bones.

-------

The man looked as though he'd survived unspeakable things. His clothes were patched and frayed, his eyes deeply sunken in a gaunt, scarred face, and his skin was so pale it seemed as though he'd never felt the sun on his back. Susan stood in welcome, smiling. "My welcome to you," she said, extending her hands for the traditional Narnian greeting. "I am Queen Susan of Narnia."

"Faugh," the man said, spitting on the ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked, shocked by his rudeness.

"One hundred years," the man said in a quiet, dead voice, "living underground. Hiding from the cold – from the death – kept from the sky and the sea. Not once did my father see the light of day. Not once. We came to the surface four years ago and found only ruin."

"Good sir," Susan said, using every ounce of skill she possessed, "I do not know of what you speak. If you would but explain—"

"Explain?" he repeated, laughing unevenly. "You forget us and ask _me_ why?"

"You will keep a civil tongue when addressing your Queen," one of the Centaur guards admonished.

"Only a false Queen," the man shouted, "would leave her people to die! You are no queen! You are nothing!" He leaped forwards, his hand at his hip.

Everything happened very quickly. The man drew a dagger – the guards sprang to action – somewhere next to Susan the bright metal of a blade reflected – Tumnus threw himself forward, hoping that if nothing else he could put himself between the Queen's body and her attacker's knife. Something knocked him aside and he fell to the ground, his head hitting the floor with a sharp crack. He pushed himself up with his elbows and dizzily looked to the dais.

Susan stood with sword drawn, its point a scant inch from the man's throat. "Stand down, fool," she said coldly.

The man's right arm came up slowly, and he threw his dagger to the floor before dropping to his knees. Susan held a warning hand up to the guards, who kept their distance.

"Now," said the Queen of Narnia, "if you value your life you will explain the meaning of this."

* * *

Copious footnotes time. "This is my standard procedure for doing it. And while I compose it, I'm also reviewing it!" 

_On geography:_  
Does -anybody- know how big Narnia is? Jack didn't seem to. If I'm wildly off in my estimation of travelling time, let me know.

_On phonetics:_  
Peter and Ed are using an altered version (since Narnians wouldn't know some of the words) of the WWII RAF phonetic alphabet. I think they learned it from their father before he went off to war. I highly recommend learning one; they're more useful than you'd expect.

_On excerpts:_  
The bit of journal Susan reads is a bastardized version of 'At One O'Clock In The Morning' by Charles Baudelaire. Lucy's horse song is based on an Irish (I think) traditional called 'The Raggle Taggle Gypsy.' My musefriend calls me the Weird Al of classic literature and I'm starting to agree...

_On mental chess:_  
Our dear kings keep chess sets next to the maps in their heads. Lots of people play this way; it's known as blindfold chess, and it's been played at least since 600-something C.E.

_On delays:_  
RL demands are popping up (I'm being commandeered to help a friend move) so the next bits might be a while in coming. It won't be too terribly long, unless I break my wrists toting boxes of comic books. Wish us strong backs, good beer, and pizza deliveryboys with fast cars.


	6. Conversations and Reactions

_In which Lucy has an educational breakfast, Tumnus is fussed over, bad news keeps growing, messages are crossed, and an unprecedented offer is made._

* * *

The sun rose as Lucy and Aelf picked their way through the forest, but the trees' branches met so thickly overhead the only effect it had was to make things less dark. Lucy had pulled her traveling cloak over her head as much to ward off the dew as to give her some semblance of being hidden from the outside world.

Though, Lucy thought, her own thoughts probably were not the nicest place to be.

"We'll be there soon, Majesty," Aelf said softly, pausing to get his bearings before continuing. Lucy reached down and rubbed his neck in response.

-----

It had taken most of the evening to secure the castle to the satisfaction of Ameia, the Centaur sergeant whom Oreius had left in charge of security. The human had been thoroughly questioned but to no effect; he seemed to have lost whatever composure he had left when he made his attack. Susan had ordered the man to be put under lock and key in a comfortable room and given good food; whether he took any advantage of these amenities she did not know, because Ameia had ordered her and Tumnus into a small, easily defended lounge.

"Here you go," she said, seating herself next to Tumnus on a long, low couch and pressing a towel full of ice chips to the back of his head. "You'll have a regular goose egg from that. Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine – Fauns are known to be hard-headed—" Tumnus protested, but the determined glint in Susan's eyes made him stop. "Thank you, that does feel good," the Faun said, taking the ice pack and adjusting it.

"What possessed you to do that?" she asked again. By Tumnus' estimation, it was the thirteenth time.

"He had a knife," the Faun said, embarrassed by Susan's solicitousness, "and you know, Majesty—"

"Susan, _please."_

"—Susan, you've kept your arms training a secret."

"I have until now," she said wryly. "Now everyone's going to want to watch the Gentle Queen train with a broadsword."

"It was something to see."

"I'm sure it was," she smiled. "Oh! Here's Valios with the wine. Would you like – no, you silly thing, don't get up, you're injured. I'll get it." Ignoring Tumnus' protests, she poured three cups, inviting Valios to sit and drink with them.

"We can't find anyone else," Valios said. "Ameia's ready to tender a resignation over this – she says it's her fault he came so close to hurting you. I think the man was alone. He hasn't said a thing about where he came from – hasn't said much, really, that's useful. Or that bears repeating in mixed company." The Faun smiled. "Ameia wants to interrogate him—"

"Using methods she learned from Oreius, no doubt," Tumnus muttered.

"She'll not be doing _that,_" Susan said. "She'd have him skewered in a heartbeat and that wouldn't do any of us any good. Nor will she resign; mistakes can happen. Wherever he came from, he is a Narnian and shall be treated like one."

"Are we sure of that, Majesty?" Valios asked. "He hasn't said anything one way or the other."

"We'll assume he is until we learn he is not," Susan said. "For all we know, he could be a descendant of the old royal family."

"He can't be," Tumnus said. "That's one of the things – oh, bother that assassin!" Susan smiled to see Tumnus use one of the phrases she and her siblings had brought from Spare Oom. "It completely drove it from my mind. Cloudstrike and I finished translating the last of those books. The last few weren't written by men – there weren't any left, at least not on the mainland."

"Mainland? There's none left on Galma, either – remember, Axet led a search party there years ago."

"He said everything had been destroyed," Valios offered, "though there were signs of a sizable human town once. And a harbor."

"But none now," Tumnus concluded. "Still, this man had to come from somewhere – and he did mention the sea, didn't he? He could be from the Lone Islands."

"But we've never even been able to _find_ them," Valios argued. "King Peter suggested they've been lost to us because of the curse the same way all those other lands have."

"He could be right," Susan said, refilling the wine cups. "But, logically, this man had to come from somewhere. If the books are correct in that there are no men left in Narnia, and the Lone Islands are presently lost to us, he must have come from Galma."

"Does Peter know about this?" Tumnus asked.

"Yes," Susan said. "I've sent him a message – I doubt he'll write back until the morning."

"It's almost that now," Valios said. "Another hour or two, at most. Have either of you slept?"

"There's something about a would-be murder that makes rest impossible," Susan smiled. "I'll wait until I hear back from my brothers."

-----

In the distance, Lucy could see the Beavers' dam and the lake above it. The water looked cool and inviting, and at any other time Lucy would only, at this point, have been thinking of getting out of as many clothes as she was allowed (Talking Beasts, as a rule, did not care much about nakedness but were fussy when it came to whether their human rulers might catch a chill) and swimming.

Today, however, Lucy felt strangely self-conscious. She knew that the Beavers loved her dearly and had accepted her family the way they would their own children – but it is always troubling when one needs to ask close friends difficult questions. She occupied herself by worrying whether she was too early for a proper visit, and had very nearly decided to turn around and go back when she saw a dark shape in the water. A dark Beaver-shaped shape.

Aelf daintily picked his way down to the water's edge, then stood as Lucy dismounted. Lucy removed his tack and – as she'd been taught – hung it on some nearby tree branches. She patted Aelf on the head and set off alone; the Beavers' lodge was very nearly too small to fit Peter these days, and trying to stuff a Horse in would be impossible.

A beaver's lodge, Mr. Beaver had once explained, would ordinarily have one entrance: a hole leading directly into the water below. However, this lodge – as much for Mr. Beaver's fondness of odd engineering projects as a desire to keep guests comfortably dry – had been placed close to shore, with a walkway made of piled tree branches that led to a tiny door.

The Beaver in the water – from this distance Lucy couldn't tell who it was – surfaced and flipped onto its back, waving at her. She waved back. The beaver dove again and disappeared under the lodge. Moments later, Mrs. Beaver (who was dry, so it must have been her husband swimming) bustled out the front door, and with much fussing over how've you been and isn't it early and why in the world are you out all alone, Lucy was ushered inside.

The first order of business, after Lucy's cloak and boots were set aside, was of course food; it had always been so with the Beavers, who claimed that conversation went better on a full belly. Mrs. Beaver had been in the middle of making breakfast for herself and her husband, and she went back to cooking, cheerfully ordering Mr. Beaver to rearrange the table and set another place out.

Breakfast turned out to be eggs cooked with sliced potatoes and mushrooms, with rolls thickly covered in butter set alongside, and a strong black tea that cleared the sleep-fog from Lucy's head completely. The portions were small, since the mugs and plates were not human-sized, but Mrs. Beaver knew well a Human child's capacity to eat, and she kept the food coming until Lucy had to beg her to stop.

After this, some time was spent discussing the expedition. Mr. and Mrs. Beaver knew about it, of course – news travels fast in Narnia in peacetime – but stories often get confused in the retelling, and learning what was happening from Lucy cleared up a lot of questions. Lucy helped with the washing-up, and after that was finished Mr. Beaver got things to business.

"As nice as it is to see you," he said, "and it is, make no mistake, you're always welcome, somehow I don't think you stopped by just because you were in the neighborhood."

"No," Lucy said quietly, "I didn't."

She then explained to them the talk she'd had with Peter and Edmund; how, when she'd asked before, Tumnus had only offered small responses about what had happened before leading the conversations on to happier things; and lastly, how she felt as though she'd done her friend some great wrong by not realizing the truth of things until now. During her monologue, the Beavers nodded in understanding, and once or twice glanced to each other as if in silent agreement on some point Lucy didn't know.

"So," Lucy finished, after draining a cup of ice-cold river water to soothe her throat, "I thought I'd come to see the two of you – since you've known him the longest, maybe you'd be able to explain it to me."

"I'm not sure it's really our place to say," Mrs. Beaver said.

"Sure it is!" Mr. Beaver argued. "Part of it's our story, isn't it?"

"He's never mentioned it to me," Lucy said.

"Haven't ever asked though, have you?" Mr. Beaver countered. "He's like that, won't tell you a thing unless you ask him first. His father went away – oh, a great many years before you lot arrived. And nobody he went with came back. Tumnus would only say he'd probably been turned to stone, but I think he knew – deep down – that the Witch killed him. You always know when it's family. And besides, when Aslan got everybody out of that hole, his father wasn't there. He wasn't surprised, Tumnus wasn't. He already knew what happened. He knew _when_ it happened, I'd bet."

"I never thought to ask," Lucy said.

"It all happened so quickly, dear," Mrs. Beaver said, laying a comforting paw over Lucy's hand.

"But it's been years since," Lucy protested, turning her hand so that she could hold Mrs. Beaver's warm little paw.

"That changed him," Mr. Beaver continued. "His father, you know, he was a believer. He _knew_ Narnia would be free one day, and he thought if he fought for it he'd get it. And when he didn't come home, well – that's when Tumnus couldn't believe in it anymore."

"But he did," Lucy said. "He didn't turn me in."

"I didn't say he_ didn't_ believe," Mr. Beaver said. "Said he couldn't let himself anymore. Hurt him too much. It was the one thing, you know, all his life he'd been told was absolutely the most important thing in the world. And then his father died with nothing to show for it. How would you feel?"

"Horrible," Lucy said, eyes filled with tears.

"He was different, after that," Mr. Beaver said. "Kept to himself. Didn't much want anything to do with it – I can't say as I blame him. I never fought with any kind of resistance myself, not counting yours." His friendly nod to Lucy somehow encompassed the whole battle of Beruna. "Think that's why he and I got along, you know. We couldn't let ourselves believe so much it got us killed – at least, until you came along. You changed everything."

"So that's what he meant," Lucy said.

The Beavers nodded.

"Why hasn't he ever said anything about this?" she asked.

"Knowing him," Mr. Beaver said, "he wouldn't want to upset you."

"So you did it for him," Mrs. Beaver chided.

"She asked, didn't she?"

"Do you think I should talk to him about it?" Lucy asked, heading off the bickering.

"Well," Mr. Beaver said, "seeing as you've already run off from your military expedition, and your brothers probably won't let you hear the end of it 'til your great-grandchildren tease you, he'll know that you came to see us. I doubt he wouldn't ask why – if he doesn't figure it out on his own, of course."

"I'm sure," Mrs. Beaver reassured Lucy, "he's only kept it to himself to keep from upsetting you. If you want to talk about it, he won't mind."

Lucy nodded. "I do want to talk to him about it. But he's back home – and it's such a long ride – I doubt Peter and Edmund would let me go home by myself." Here she yawned.

"Have you slept at all, dear?" Mrs. Beaver asked.

As if in reply, Lucy yawned again; the combination of relief at finally talking about her problems, good food, and the exercise of a morning ride had overcome her. Mrs. Beaver laid out a bed on the floor (she would have given the girl their own bed, but it was much too small) and Mr. Beaver went to tell Aelf that he'd be waiting for a while since Lucy needed to rest. Within twenty minutes the youngest queen of Narnia was lost in dreams, as comfortable in the Beavers' humble lodge as she was in her own bed in Cair Paravel.

-----

"We must continue," said Edmund to the chief Dwarf, Ruchabrik. "As horrible as this is, I want it all laid bare – put tents over the digging to keep the rain out. These are Narnians, and they deserve a better place to rest than the wreck of that witch's castle."

"As soon as you find one," Ruchabrik said. "We'll not disturb them further, but we'll uncover them."

"Not to mention, some could be identified," Peter said wearily. "Some personal effects have been found with the skeletons, have they not?"

"Indeed they have," Ruchabrik replied. "Horns and hooves survive a long time, even underground – and many left rings, cloak pins, armor, weapons – things of that nature."

"In that case," said Peter, "bring them up from the ground. Have each placed in a shroud."

"We'll need to send away for those," Ruchabrik said. "We'll make do with what we have until then."

"Best to organize them a bit," Edmund added. "Beasts, Fauns, Centaurs, Humans – it will make it easier for their families to identify them. And if any wish to take the remains home for a burial, by all means, let them."

"This is grisly business, Sire," the Dwarf said.

"Would that we didn't have to," Peter said.

"Or that it hadn't happened," Edmund added.

"Sires," Oreius said, ducking his head into the tent, "we've received a message from your sister the Queen."

"Susan?"

"Yes," said Oreius, entering the tent. A falcon sat on his wrist, and it bowed in greeting before fluttering off to land on Peter's outstretched arm.

"Morning, cousin," the High King said to it. "I don't have any mice for you, but you have my thanks. Is this in response to my message?"

"I was not aware that one had been sent. Much has happened at Cair Paravel, Sire," the Falcon said. "I will let your royal sister explain it to you." It held out its leg, and with some help from Edmund, Peter got the message untied.

"Must have crossed messages along the way," Edmund muttered, taking the Falcon from Peter, who read the message aloud.

_My brothers, _the letter read,

_I send you grave news. Last night an attempt was made on my life by a man – yes, a son of Adam – whose origins are, as yet, unknown to me. He seems to have suffered terrible hardship. We have Oreius' training to thank for my survival; please give him my gratitude._

"You've been training her in combat?" Edmund blurted. Oreius smiled and nodded.

_We do not know,_ Susan's letter continued, _how many more of these men are in our country; nor do we know where they have come from. My assailant has been placed in confinement, but thus far he has not told us anything of use. Ameia has scoured every inch of Cair Paravel and found nothing; however, we shall have to wait for daylight before exploring the surrounding environs. Judging by this man's demeanor and appearance, more of his kind should have no problem keeping themselves well hidden. _

_I beg you hurry home, and in the meantime please be safe. We do not know who these men are or what their intentions may be._

_Lion keep you, and all my love to you all._

_Susan._

Edmund whistled. "Today keeps getting better."

"Three days' ride," Peter said. "By the time we get back – who knows what could have happened?"

"My sergeants and I can take you," Oreius offered, "and your sister the Queen. You should be moved to a safer place until this threat is untangled."

"General," Peter said, well aware of both the endurance of a Centaur (they are not nearly as easily tired as a Dwarf) and the proscription against riding one, "we could not ask this of you."

"Nay, Sire," Oreius said, "I am asking it of you. You need only give us leave and we will have your royal family safely within the walls of Cair Paravel by sundown."

Peter glanced at Edmund. "What do you think, brother mine?"

"Kingside castle," Edmund said, "and we'd better hurry it up too. We don't know how many of these people are out there, and we only left a light guard at Paravel. Send someone to wake Lucy and bring her here."

"I shall do that, Sire," the Falcon said, and Oreius held the tent door open as it flew away.

Oreius nodded. "I will assemble your escort."

"General," said Peter, "thank you. We shall not forget this honor."

"The honor is ours," Oreius said, bowing deeply before leaving.

"Ruchabrik," Peter said, after a few moments' thought, "go find Captain Schiesus. Tell him of this development and have him confer with Oreius' sergeants. The work here needs to continue, and I'll not leave any of you unprotected."

"At once, Sire," the Dwarf said, leaving.

-----

"We've just gotten a message," Valios said, entering the room. "They must have crossed in transit – this is far too soon to be a reply to the one we sent." He handed the scroll to Tumnus, who had risen to retrieve it; Tumnus unrolled the message, and as he read his face paled.

"What is the matter?" Susan asked. "Are you all right?"

"No – yes – I mean – you should read this yourself," he said, collapsing on the couch next to Susan and handing the scroll over.

Queen Susan read in silence. She let the scroll drop from her hands, and with a glance at Tumnus, they fell into each others' arms, crying quietly.

"I had no idea," Susan whispered. "I never would have guessed."

"Neither did I," said Tumnus, who could only think of his father, gone these many years.

------

"No, Sire," Loukas said. "There is no sign of your sister the Queen or the horse Aelf anywhere in the camp."

"Damn it all," Peter thundered, "she would pick this time to run off."

"Never said she'd think about it _here,_" Edmund offered in pre-emptive self-defense. Peter raised an eyebrow at his brother, but otherwise said nothing.

"The scent should be fresh," Loukas offered. "Would you like us Dogs to track them?"

"Yes, please," Peter said tiredly, "and drag her back with your teeth if she doesn't come willingly. Lion's Mane! I'm starting to think I prefer outright war!"

* * *

It wouldn't be me without copious notes, now, would it?

_On themes, imagery, and content:_  
We took a pretty sharp turn last chapter, didn't we? Left Jack's post-Victorian paeans to childhood and innocence behind -- now we have hurtled into a Gaimanesque "Fairytales Really Weren't For Kids" territory. It's probably going to stay there, too.

_On allegory and symbolism:_  
I never even _got_ that the books had Christian elements until I was in high school, and even now I still have to do some reaching to see the connections. What I notice instead are a LOT of parallels between Narnia and folklore, mythology, and fairy-tales. Not too surprising, since Jack studied those things. That's what I'm drawing from, thematically, for this story. I realize that's a pretty different take on it from most interpretations of the source text. But hey, if it fails to be interesting, at least it'll be unusual.

_On how talky everybody is:_  
One of my favorite things to explore is character -- their motivations, their reactions to events, their relationships with each other. And the best way to do that is in dialogue. I never could get the hang of soliloquy; I'll leave those to Shakespeare.

_On theft:_  
I'm pretty sure I've yoinked Ed and Peter's phrase 'brother mine' from Almyra. I can't not use it; it's so.. _them_. Almyra's fics are awesome, too -- shoo, go read.

_One random I-watched-the-movie-again note:_  
Has it occurred to anyone else that Skandar Keynes is going to turn into Paul McCartney when he grows up? Seriously. The kid's a miniature Beatle.


	7. Shock, Travel, and Council

_In which Dogs are successful, the endurance of a Centaur is proven to be great indeed, Lucy makes another friend, worse eating conditions cannot be imagined, and Peter asks a painful question.  
_

* * *

The first sound of barking caused Mrs. Beaver to drop her kettle. Her husband noticed this immediately, mopping up the mess on the floor with a tea towel before she'd had time to do much more than put a paw over her pounding heart and find the nearest chair. 

"Probably just the King's dogs looking for Lucy," Mr. Beaver said soothingly.

"I'm sure," she said. "But even after all this time—"

"I know. Best go and wake her then – will you be all right, luv?"

Before she could reply, Lucy's sleep-thick voice sounded from the bedroom. "That'd be for me, I think."

"You've just woken up," Mrs. Beaver said, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. "Go wash your face – I'll deal with those dogs."

------

The Dogs, tactfully, said nothing about what had been found at the camp. Instead they swarmed around Lucy and Aelf (who did not much care for the feeling of smaller Creatures winding between his knees) and urged her, incessantly, to hurry up and come back please please please before King Peter the Bruised sent another team out to find where _they_ had gone.

"I _am_ hurrying, keep your tails on," Lucy said, tightening Aelf's girth – the little Horse grunted in surprise – "anyone would think I'd been gone for days." She hugged the dear Beavers good-bye, promising to write as soon as she was safely home and genuinely sorry she would not be able to stay for supper.

To her surprise, it was not Peter but Edmund who met her at the edge of camp. With a chorus of "Here she is!" and "We found her!" and "I shall tell the King at once!" the impromptu canine escort peeled off and streamed away, now checking the ground and tracking Peter to inform him of their success.

"I could tell them where he is," Edmund said, half to himself.

"Is he angry?" Lucy asked, accepting her brother's hand as she dismounted.

"Not at you," Edmund said. "Everything's happened at once. Nobody's hurt – don't worry about that – apparently Susan can take care of herself—" and with that, he explained what had happened at Cair Paravel.

They picked their way through the strangely quiet camp as Edmund talked. Lucy was appropriately surprised and startled by turns, and far too engrossed in the story to notice the silence. Aelf did, however, and after much snorting and laying-back of ears and swishing of his flowered tail, Lucy finally asked him what the matter was.

"It's too quiet," the little Horse said.

"Ah," Edmund said, sobering. "That's not nearly the worst of it. Once we get to the pavilion I'll explain—"

Lucy's attention was caught by a flash of white inside one of the tents they were passing, which – she thought – had not been there the night before. She turned to see what it was, and in the darkness of the tent a skeleton glowed at her, mute and white and accusing. Edmund said something else, and behind her Aelf let out a neighing yelp of surprise. Lucy stood transfixed and Edmund threw himself between her and the tent door, wrapping her in a bone-breaking hug.

"I know," Edmund was saying, somewhere, hurriedly, "I know – it's the Witch that did this – we didn't know – I didn't want you to learn this way," but his words did not reach Lucy. Above her brother's shoulder, the white-bleached skull stared at her with dark, empty eye-sockets. Two dark circles on its forehead were all that remained of horns cruelly cut off.

------

The halls were silent as Susan left the room in a swirl of brightly-colored skirts. "There's no speaking to him," she told Valios, who had been waiting outside the Galman's room. "I've tried everything I can think of – maybe we should let Ameia have him."

"King Edmund will know how to handle it," Valios told her. "Speaking of, we've got another message from him – he says that your family is being brought home by Centaurs."

"That's unprecedented," Susan said, surprised. "Oreius must have forced Peter into agreeing – you know he'd never ask such a thing."

"They should be back around sundown," Valios said.

"Good," Susan said, yawning. "That will give me some time to rest. I'm beginning to understand why Aslan put four thrones here."

"Before you do that," Valios said apologetically, "Masters Cloudstrike and Tumnus are waiting in the library. Another historian has arrived."

-----

A hot cup of tea (mixed with a splash of brandy from the flask that had, until now, been a secret carried in Peter's boot) had steadied Lucy's nerves enough to stop her hands from shaking. Her brothers sat close by, holding her hands, rubbing her back, smoothing her hair, reassuring her that she was doing very well indeed because she had managed to keep from fainting or losing the Beavers' hearty breakfast.

"Are you angry at me?" she asked Peter.

"If that was the only thing that happened, I would be," Peter said. "Considering everything else, I'll let it slide. But don't do it again."

"Don't tell Susan I ran off," Lucy asked.

"I wasn't planning to. Why?"

"She told me she'd send Edmund after you," she said absurdly. Her vision swam again, and Edmund took the teacup.

"It'll be okay, Lu," he said. "I don't know how, but it will."

"Can we go home?" she asked. "I really – I don't want to be here anymore."

Peter knelt on the ground before her and took her hands. "As soon as you're ready to go," he said, with as brave a smile as he could muster, "we will. You're not going to believe how, but I think you'll like it."

------

"Would you carry Lucy?" Peter asked Oreius. "Should it come to it, there's nobody I'd rather have protecting her."

"Of course, Sire," the Centaur said. "We will leave when she is ready."

"I shouldn't expect this to be more than a few days," Edmund told Philip, combing the Horse's forelock with his fingers. "Though I don't know how we'll get back."

"I thought you knew," Philip said. "Some of us are setting out after you, in case you need us at Cair Paravel. It will take a while longer, but we will be there."

"She is ready, Sire," Oreius told Peter, with a nod toward the pavilion.

Lucy, having just finished putting all her armor on, stood in the doorway. She watched the diggers in the distance; she watched the endless procession of Narnians carrying cloth-wrapped pallets; her mind supplied a face for each one. Peter went to double-check her armor and bring her back.

"Oreius?" Lucy echoed as they made their way to where the Centaur escort waited.

"Yes," he said. "Don't be scared of him."

"I can't help it," she said, adjusting the bag slung over her back. As they approached the Centaurs she felt rather shy and small, and wondered briefly if staying at the camp would be so bad after all. Oreius loomed up next to her, and Lucy curtseyed, awkward in the heavy chain mail. "I'm sorry, sir," Lucy said shyly. "I'm not a very _good_ rider yet. I still fall off sometimes."

"Little queen," Oreius said, "I will not let you fall."

"It would be an awfully long way if I did," she said with some trepidation.

"That it would. Take my arm." Lucy did this and held on tight; Oreius lifted her as easily as he did his greatsword, and deftly placed her on his horse-back. "Hold here," he said, pointing to one part of armor, "and tuck your knees there – yes." Oreius reached behind Lucy and, placing one broad hand on the small of her back, pushed gently. She popped upright. "Good," the Centaur said, "good. You sit well. Are you ready?"

Lucy's feet dangled. She saw how far away the ground was and suddenly understood why her brothers persisted in calling Aelf a pony. She tightened her knees, straightened her spine, closed her eyes, and made some small timid noise of assent. Then off they went.

A Centaur intent on covering distance at speed does not gallop. They run in a two-beat pace, a thousand times smoother than the finest horse, that devours miles. Lucy realized quickly that her fears were unfounded; other than a strong sway from side to side, the only indication of motion was the steady thrum of hoofbeats and the wind in her face. She opened her eyes and then, delighted, looked around – already the camp was far away.

"It's wonderful," she told Oreius, and indeed it was.

-------

"Ah!" Cloudstrike said, as Susan entered the library. "There you are, dear. This is Sallowpad the Raven."

"I think he has our answer," Tumnus said.

"Master Sallowpad, you have my thanks," Susan said, curtseying.

"Thank you for having me, Majesty," the Raven croaked. "But I'd just as soon get to it. Time wasted is time forever lost."

"Indeed it is," Susan said, seating herself.

"I believe my people are the only ones who knew this prophecy," Sallowpad said. "No offense meant, of course," he added, nodding at the Centaur. "It was told us by one of the Dryads who came from the same forest as the great Shield Tree. I will tell it to you as I have learned it," the Raven said, and repeated a few rhyming lines in the Old Language.

"I don't understand that at all," Tumnus said.

"It is a formal version of the Old Language," Cloudstrike explained, "used only for laws and prophecies. Loses something in the translation, I think."

"What does it mean?" Susan asked.

"The last couplet," the Centaur said, clearing his throat, "would go thus: _until their souls be put to rest, our land shall from the world be kept._ I would think that means the victims found in the wreck of the Witch's castle."

"It would have to be," Tumnus said.

For a moment everyone in the room was quiet, as thoughts turned to those lost to the Witch.

"We must tell my brothers this at once. Valios?"

"Yes, Majesty?"

"Ensure the signal fires are manned. We must be ready for my family when they arrive."

"Of course, Majesty."

-----

Any travel – especially that done of necessity – becomes tedious after some time, no matter how unprecedented the method of conveyance may be. The Centaur guard fanned out in a rough sort of circle, with Oreius carrying Lucy (who always did love to run off ahead) some distance before the pair bearing Peter and Edmund.

"Knight from beer-two to chant-six," Peter said. "You think they're right?"

"Have to be," Edmund replied. "There's nowhere else we've been able to reach. Kingside castle."

"I can't believe we didn't look closer," Peter said. "I could kick myself for that." Then, after a pause, "Bishop from fly-eight to echo-seven."

"They had to have hidden themselves well, to survive. No wonder we didn't see them. And if they didn't come up for a hundred years, there'd be no trace of them."

"I suppose not," Peter said. "And yet—"

"Knight from dog-four to echo-two," Edmund interrupted. "Stop it before you start, brother. I'm as much a King as you are and it never crossed my mind."

"I know," Peter said. "If he was right and they came to the surface four years ago – say three, we scouted Galma that long ago – how d'you think they knew? Ice melting in the caverns? If they did come up then, they'd easily have a ship built by now."

"Time and enough for a fleet," Edmund agreed. "Galmans were always sailors, we know that much. Then they came here – Glasswater, you think?"

"Too close. Pawn from beer-seven to beer-five."

Edmund grunted an agreement. "Glasswater we'd have seen."

"Or the mermaids would have said something. Though, if they – the Galmans, I mean – knew to come to Cair Paravel they'd have landed near it."

"Not too near."

"Mph. The Wash?"

"That would do," Edmund agreed. "Redsand?"

"Too far. Bishop from chant-one to fly-four. Nor the Black Cliffs, that's out of the way and too far south. If they landed at all."

"Ship at sea and came in boats?"

"Don't see why not. Easier getaway, if there's trouble."

"But far enough that we didn't see them from Paravel. I'd guess north. Knight from chant-six to echo-five."

"No more than a day for Axet's scouts," Peter said. "Two teams? One north, one south."

"Tonight? Campfires would be easier to see."

"Too easy. They've stayed hidden this far, I doubt they'd do that. We'll send them out first thing in the morning. Would you look at that?"

Lucy stood on Oreius' horse-back, her boots securely hooked under straps in his armor. She had pressed herself close against his man-back, her small arm wound around his neck and their heads together.

"I wonder what they're talking about?" Edmund mused.

"Who knows?" Peter asked. "Lu could make friends with anybody. Queen from dog-one to dog-four."

"Probably wants to wear his helmet."

Peter shrugged, easily visualizing the possibility. "It would fit over hers. Pawn from dog-seven to dog-six."

"This _would_ happen with our forces split."

"There's no good time to be invaded, Ed. Now, the forces we have _left—_"

-----

The Centaurs stopped twice along the trip, both times for the benefit of the humans who limply slid to the ground and staggered about, working blood into dead-feeling backs and legs. Except for Peter, none were proficient at riding bareback, and while armor offers hand- and foot-holds, it does not lend itself well to comfort. Shortly after the last break, the threatening rain clouds opened; the Centaurs did not mind this, and the humans wrapped themselves securely in their cloaks.

------

The worst part of any expedition, Susan thought, was the last few hours of waiting for everyone to come home. She knew she belonged at Cair Paravel; she felt more comfortable running the castle than any sort of campaign. And yet, nights such as this, with the rain clattering on the balcony and no way to know when her family was near, used up most of her considerable patience. Waiting with her were the faun Valios, a pair of great Cats (both half asleep) and a hedgehog named Kela.

"Majesty," one of the Cats said gently, "will you please stop pacing? It makes me dizzy to watch you, and I'm a Cat."

"Sorry," she said. "Everything is in readiness, is it not?"

"It is," Valios said. "Will you_ stop_ that? I've half a mind to wake Tumnus – though the Lion only knows how he manages to distract you at times like this."

"Let him sleep," Susan said. "He didn't earlier, the poor dear."

"He did ask for us to wake him when everyone arrived."

"We will not. He needs the rest. Did he eat?"

"You're as bad as a Beaver, Majesty, you know that?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Susan laughed. "And have the—"

Ameia's knock at the door interrupted her. "The signal fires have been lit, your Highness," she said. "Your family arrives."

"I'll meet them in the entrance hall at once," said Susan.

Narnians, when they set their minds to it, can be quite efficient. Not a moment was wasted: when the Centaurs swept into the stone-floored entrance hall of Cair Paravel, they found Susan at the head of a team of Fauns and Satyrs armed with towels and large buckets of ice-cold water and wine. The three monarchs stiffly slid from their guards' backs for the last time and everyone dried off as best they could. Susan took a moment to fuss over a soaked and shivering Lucy before handing her off to a trio of young dryads who bustled her away for a change of clothes. Ameia and Oreius took charge of the Centaur escort and led them away. The rest of the group, already deep in discussion, made straight for the campaign room where the rest of their advisors waited.

-------

The High King Peter swept into the room. "Lucy's hopefully not catching her death of cold," he told the mixed group of Narnians, "Oreius is seeing to our escort, and Tumnus is not to be disturbed by Susan's decree. So it's just us." Dripping water everywhere, he unbuckled his helmet and threw it on the large table. "What do we have?"

"One Man," said a Dwarf named Droggin. "We've not been able to get anything out of him. Seems completely mad – by the look of him, lived through some hard times as well."

"Do we know why he attacked?" Edmund asked, dropping his helmet next to his brother's. A moment later, a pair of arming caps and chainmail coifs joined the helmets. Sword belts were set down next, with slightly more care.

"No, Sire," Droggin said. "We've put him in confinement, but your sister the Queen insisted he be treated kindly. He's got a fireplace and a bed and we've been bringing food up regular."

"Not trying to burn the place down, I hope," Peter grunted, pulling a glove off with his teeth so that he could unbuckle the gauntlet on his other hand.

"Is he eating?" Edmund asked.

"No and no," Droggin said. "Fire's behind a metal grate, and food's gone in and out untouched. Seems to be unaware of us. It's a damn strange thing."

"Sounds it," Peter said, gently setting his breastplate on the table. "What did he say to you, Su?"

"Just what I put in my letter," she said. "He mentioned that his people had been underground for a hundred years. I can only assume they were hiding from the Witch's forces. I don't know how they did it."

Peter whistled. "That's a thing to think about." He turned to Edmund. "I don't think this changes the plan, do you?"

"Not a bit of it," Edmund said, unbuckling his breastplate.

"Care to explain to everyone here?" Peter asked. "This – ugh – this thing's stuck."

"Since Galma's so close to Cair Paravel," Edmund said, "they can't have landed too far away. Just far enough we wouldn't see them. We thought they'd land north—"

"You did," Peter said, tugging at his hauberk.

"Did I?" Edmund asked. "I thought that was you. Anyway – they'll likely land north of here, but it'll be best to search the coast in both directions. Do you want help with that?"

"Yes, please. It's caught," Peter grunted. His brother willingly obliged. Peter's chainmail hauberk slid over his shoulders and landed with a heavy thud on the wooden table. The young king groaned, flexing his shoulders, and a series of pops sounded down his spine. "By the Lion, that's better. Go on, Ed."

"They can't be more than a few hours' flight from here," Axet said.

"Must you do that here?" Susan asked, wiping a splash of water from her face.

"Give a king a break, Su," Peter said sheepishly. "I'm freezing."

"You could have changed first," she argued. "We're not in _that_ much danger."

"Axet, two teams," Edmund continued loudly, unbuckling his pauldrons. "Send one north, one south, along the coast. Once you've found where they came to land, send a messenger back and have the rest look for a camp. And when you find _that,_ come back so that we can decide what to do."

"It will be done, Sire," Axet said. "Are you sure you do not wish us to scout now?"

"Not in this confounded rain," Edmund said. "It would hardly do any good."

"For that, I thank you."

"Not a problem. Get some rest – you'll need to start early."

The griffon nodded and left the room.

"Now we've got that settled," Peter said, unlacing his soaking gambeson and dropping it in a heap on the floor, "what next?" He took a thick towel from a waiting Faun and mopped at his face.

"Me," Edmund said, letting his pauldrons land on the table with a clang. "My skin's soaked through to the skin."

"The prophecy. You know," Susan chided gently, "some people have valets for this sort of thing."

"Some people – ngh! – don't come home to a full – ouch – a full council waiting for them, either. There, you've got it," Edmund said, and his hauberk slid to the floor. His gambeson quickly followed. "What's this prophecy?"

"More death and doom?" Peter asked lightly, taking another towel from the waiting Faun and using it on his brother's hair.

Susan smiled at her brothers. They'd both flatly refused valets, especially when it came to armor, claiming that it was good battle luck to help each other get equipped. "No," she said, "an answer. A Raven named Sallowpad brought it to us – he's from a forest up in the Northern March. It says that once the Witch's dead are laid to rest, the mists will clear."

"And then we'll have access to these other countries, you think?"

"Wmmfle," Edmund agreed from under the towel.

"One thing at a time," Peter said. "We've got to deal with these Galmans first. Even if we didn't have this prophecy, I'd still want to finish the work at that hellhole – they're our countrymen and deserve a better place to rest. But it'll be slow going, and – I hate the way this sounds – we should look to the living before the dead."

"Agreed," said Edmund, finally free of the towel. "What can we do for the Galmans, if they're friendly?"

"Offer aid," Peter said. "Anything they want. If they'd rather live here, we've space enough – and if they want us to help them rebuild Galma, we'll do that too. It's the least we can do to make up for our negligence."

"For the last time, brother, let it go," Edmund said, pulling a boot off with a thick squish. He upended it and water dripped out. "It will be strange to see humans again," he said thoughtfully, pulling a knife out of the boot and wiping it dry on his shirt.

"That it will, brother mine," Peter agreed. He seated himself, his heavily shod feet landing noisily – one! two! – with a spray of mud on the table. "What was this about food?"

Susan cast a critical glance across the table, which was covered with muddy armor, damp stinking leather, and soaked towels. "I think," she said with some asperity, "we should take dinner elsewhere."

"Su," Peter said with every inch of charm he possessed, "I promise we'll clean up after ourselves. Right now an army of giants couldn't move me from the spot."

"Nor me, sister," Edmund said, accepting a blanket from one of the Fauns and wrapping it around himself. He sank into the warmth – and a chair – with a contented sigh. "We've eaten in worse conditions."

"I shudder to think," Susan said.

"Best for you not to," said Oreius, entering the room. He was free of his armor and looked as fresh as he had that morning. "Have we a plan of action?"

"We have a plan of hurry up and wait," said Peter, who knew the General shared his predilection for action.

"That is a start," said Oreius.

--------

Peter often thought that insomnia was an innate Pevensie trait. He did not know whether the war back in England – or Spare Oom, as he frequently thought of it now – had caused it or merely exacerbated what was already there. They all had it, however, and they all responded to it in different ways. Lucy's chosen cure was to sleep in somebody else's bed, as though whatever kept her awake was a problem with pillows and mattress, not anything in her head. Edmund would write, copying old manuscripts (everyone who could wield a pen often took a turn in this) or detailing the day's events in one of his journals. Susan used the time to work on needlework projects or other fine stitchery. Peter, as always, found solace in motion, and on nights when he couldn't sleep he would roam the castle. Some evenings he told himself he was trying to figure out where Lucy had camped for the night (usually with Susan or Tumnus; she claimed Edmund's busy pen distracted her); others, like tonight, he simply accepted he had far too much to think about and let his feet move under him until he had come to a satisfactory conclusion. Far too much he could never forget; until the day he died, Peter knew, he'd remember the empty stare of skulls.

A glimmer of light in a side room caught his attention and he backtracked to the open door. He should, he thought, have expected this sooner.

At any other time he would have knelt, or perhaps, given the turmoil in his mind, thrown himself at the Lion, seeking comfort in the thick mane. At any other time he would have shown the obeisance he knew the creature standing before him deserved. At any other time – noticing the droop of the great head which could only mean unspeakable sorrow – he would have offered what comfort he could.

His back ramrod straight, his knees unbowed, Peter Pevensie gave voice to the question that had kept him from sleep.

"Why?"

* * *

Brief notes this go-round. I know you're relieved. 

_On feedback:_  
Thank you, so very much, all of you who have taken the time to leave reviews or send messages. It helps more than you'd know – you have given me some interesting things to think about, and the story's expanding in ways it never would have, otherwise.

_On armor-slinging Kings:_  
Told you I'd use everything else I learned when I was trying to figure out what an arming cap is called.

_On two-beat gaits:_  
I know, I know. A fast pace on a normal horse will send a rider flying off sideways. Centaurs are _special_, is what.


	8. Three Conversations at Midnight

_In which Edmund has an unusual meal, Lucy gives and recieves apologies, and Peter finds solace and understanding._

* * *

Lucy bolted down the halls as fast as her feet would take her, unaware of the noise her heavily shod feet made on the wooden floors. She flung the door open and skidded to a halt inside the bedroom, suddenly terrified that it would be empty.

The fire had died down in the hearth, but there was still light enough to see by, and what Lucy saw both warmed her heart and made her start to cry in relief: Tumnus, fast asleep in bed, a few books strewn across the blankets. She clambered into bed with him and pillowed her head on his chest.

Sleepily, he put an arm around her, and when this made her cry harder, it pulled him, somewhat, to wakefulness.

"Heard what they found there," he said, drowsy. "Sorry you had to see it."

"It could have been you," she said, and kept saying – and as Tumnus edged to fully awake he realized she'd been saying that for some time. "Could've been you there. Could've been—"

"But it wasn't. I'm right here, see?"

"But it could have been. And your _horns—"_ which set her to crying more. "You never said – you never told me – all those people in there—"

"Shh," the Faun soothed, "shh. It wasn't me." He sat up, then, and pulled her closer to him – wincing just slightly when her heavy boots knocked into his leg – and idly wondered how, between the two of them, they could own a hundred handkerchiefs and not have one to hand. He settled for dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the coverlet (which had been knitted by Mrs. Beaver as a Christmas present) and when she finally quieted, he waited for her to speak.

"Why didn't you ever tell me what she did to you?" she asked.

"I didn't want to get you – like this – I thought it would upset you. And it has. I'm sorry, Lucy."

"Don't be," she sniffed. "It's just – there were so many of them there. So many! And every one I saw, all I could think was that it could have been you. Why would – why did she only turn you to stone?"

"I've wondered about that myself," he said thoughtfully, "and I never could figure it out. Edmund had an idea, though."

"What'd he think?"

"Did you know that when he was in her prison I saw him there?"

"He told me that – said he was sorry – and he is, you know, he—"

"Shh, shh. I know. We've talked about it, he and I; we're neither of us angry about that. But he thinks he's the reason I lived. That when she took me from her prison, instead of killing me, she turned me to stone so he would see it. He says that's when he realized just how horrible she was." Another slight laugh. "Convenient for both of us, you know."

Lucy looked up at him, then, and touched her fingers to a horn. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes," he said. "As though my head was splitting open."

"And they will never grow back?"

"No."

A few more tears fell at that. "If it hadn't been you who met me—"

"Then I never may have – or if I had, it might have only been as a soldier in your army." Lucy snorted at this; she knew Tumnus was about as effective as Mrs. Beaver in single combat. "You're my dearest friend, Lucy," he said gently. "If it was a choice between meeting you or keeping my horns, well – she could have filed them down to my skull for all I care."

"But then there wouldn't be anything to put the gold on," she argued, absurdly.

"And then I'd be a Faun without horns. So what? It wouldn't matter. It doesn't bother me, and I don't want it to bother you. It was a long time ago, and everything that happened – finding you, Aslan coming back – it was all worth it, do you understand?"

"Yes," she said eventually. "But it still bothers me."

"Then think of it this way: remember how, when we first met, I was going to turn you in?"

"Don't you dare tell me you deserved it," she said vehemently. "You didn't."

"No, no. It's a reminder."

"Of what?"

"To do the right thing, no matter what. My father tried to teach me that, but after he died, I didn't believe it – not until I met you."

"Do you – oh, this is so horrible – do you think your father's there?"

"He might be," Tumnus said calmly. "I know he died. He didn't come back when Aslan brought us all back from being stone. But I think – no. I knew before then."

They both were quiet for a long time; long enough that Tumnus thought Lucy had fallen asleep. She hadn't.

"Do you think you might want to find your father?" she asked.

"I hadn't decided yet. Why?"

"I want to go with you."

"No," he said firmly. "I don't want you to have to see that again."

"I don't want you to do it alone."

Knowing he was beat, Tumnus shook his head. "It may not be for a while – there's this business with the Galmans to sort out first."

"But we'll go together, won't we?"

"Yes."

"Good," Lucy said. "You've done too much alone already." She quieted against his side, and for some time Tumnus listened to her steady breathing as she drifted off to sleep. "C'n I stay here?" Lucy asked fuzzily. "Don't wan' be alone."

"Of course you can." Tumnus covered her with a soft wool blanket. (The roughest Narnian wool is like the best wool in our world: warm and only _pleasantly_ itchy.) He took a brand from the fire and lit the oil lamp next to the bed. His own sheets, he noticed as he climbed back in, were somewhat mussed and tear-dampened, but that didn't make them any less comfortable. Lucy snuggled close to his side, so he put his arm around her and watched with relief as she finally relaxed.

"Aslan named you well," he said with no small amount of wonder, brushing her hair back from her peaceful face.

He took a book from the stack on his nightstand and, after some experimentation, found the best place to put it was against Lucy's shoulder. His father had always said that reading was the best cure against too many thoughts before bedtime, and sleep, Tumnus knew, would be a long time in coming – if it did at all.

----------

Edmund – bereft of crown, dressed simply in a tunic and leggings, feet covered in comfortable soft shoes – carried the tray into the captive's room and nudged the door shut with a shoulder.

He studied the man carefully. It was, as he had anticipated, strange to see another Son of Adam. The man's face and body – more like his own than most of the Narnians whose company he kept – seemed oddly exaggerated and bizarre, even slightly grotesque, and he wondered: is that the way our subjects see us?

The man had seated himself on the floor, his back braced in a corner of the room. He was far from the fire, pressed up against the stones, but if he was cold he did not show it. Edmund could not tell from his pallor whether he was feeling the chill of the stone – Edmund knew that he would, especially on a cold rainy night like this.

The man's hair was darkened from dirt, but seemed to be dark brown scattershot with a steely grey. His dark eyes, expressionless and devoid of warmth, were sunk deep in shadowed sockets. His face, strangest of all, was marked here and there – almost at random – by strange scars, thin and horizontal. They seemed deliberate. His clothes were dark and simple, patched and stitched in many places, and as dirty as the rest of him. He did not smell; it seemed more a clean dirt, a deep-underground earthy dirt.

Edmund cleared his throat softly, and the man's eyes flickered to the tray in his hands before landing on his face. He remembered brief mentions of a "thousand-yard stare" from Spare Oom; Oreius would call this a warfield gaze. Edmund suppressed a shudder and crossed the room, approaching the man slowly. The man did not change his posture or tense any muscles, but Edmund, with the benefit of four years in combat training, could clearly see that this man had braced himself against wall and floor in such a way as to attack an assailant with no warning.

Edmund knelt and placed the tray on the floor, within the man's reach. He settled himself on the ground an equal distance behind it. There were many good things arranged on the tray: rashers of cold ham, thick crusty bread, bunches of grapes, cooked pavenders, and some slices of savory vegetables that had been roasted until they were slightly burnt and juicy. There was a goblet of wine and a small pitcher of water, and a pair of linen napkins folded to the side.

The man glanced at the tray, then again to Edmund.

Keeping his face carefully neutral, Edmund reached for the tray. He took a piece of bread, tore an end off, and ate it. Then he returned it to the tray. He did this next with a piece of ham, and after that removed one grape from the bunch. The man watched him, and then slowly – but of course it would be, thought Edmund – reached for the bread Edmund had tasted. Edmund nodded almost imperceptibly as the man ate it. The scarred stranger took some grapes next, and then ham from the slice Edmund had tried. When Edmund took up the goblet for a sip of wine, the man watched, and as Edmund moved to place it back down, the man held his hand out for it.

In this manner they cleaned the tray: Edmund tasting and the man eating only the things Edmund had already tried.

Edmund then poured water from the pitcher into a small finger bowl. He dipped his fingers in it, then cleaned them with a napkin. He offered the bowl and other napkin to the man, who hesitantly repeated the motions.

"Will they kill me?" the man asked, his voice rough – from disuse or trauma, Edmund did not know which.

"They will not," Edmund said gently.

"You can stop the King?"

"Good sir, I am one of them."

The man shrunk back into himself.

"And I give you my word," said Edmund, "that you will come to no harm, if you give me yours that you will make no further attempts to cause it."

"Even after what I tried to do?"

"You would be surprised," Edmund said, sipping from the wine cup, "at the things forgiven here."

"I would hear that story," said the man, "if it is yours to tell."

"It is, and I will tell it to you if you tell me yours in return." Edmund smiled. "My name is Edmund." By reflex he held out his hand – it still took a moment to remember that this was foreign to Narnians – but before he could put it down the scarred man took it.

"Mine is Ordilan," he said, shaking Edmund's hand, "and I swear I will not bring anyone else to harm."

-------

They faced each other for a lifetime of moments: the young King, bruised and bone-weary, and the ageless Lion with tears heavy in his eyes.

"Edmund asked me," Peter said in a shaking voice, "why he was more important to you than they were. He didn't understand. I didn't know what to tell him."

"He has grown," Aslan said approvingly. "But his fear and worry is not what keeps you from sleep tonight. Nor is it that of your sisters."

"But they—"

"It has always been your way to place others before you," Aslan said. "You do not need to do that here. Tell me your troubles."

"I don't think you'll like it."

"That doesn't matter."

Peter ran a hand through his unruly hair, shifted his weight on his feet. Something about the presence of Aslan encouraged stillness, but something deep in the fiber of his own body demanded action. "I'm angry," he said, finally. "And I know I shouldn't be, I know you have your reasons – you'd have to, but—"

The Lion watched, silent and motionless.

"It was full of bones," Peter said with anguish. "I couldn't even count them. Where were you? How could that happen? Why didn't you stop her?" He ground the heel of a hand into an eye, turned away from Aslan, and began to pace. "Oreius said it was a hundred years' worth of skeletons. Dead bodies. Dead Narnians, because she killed them all, and – no, no—" With an effort he calmed himself. Kings did not fly to pieces, no matter how much they wanted to.

"You are angry with me," Aslan said.

"Do you have any idea?" Peter asked rhetorically, unaware of the Lion's remark, and somewhere deep inside of him the dam broke. "Do you know what she did to them? Some looked like they'd been cut apart with hacksaws. Some of the skulls were smashed. We had to sift through the dirt with our fingers to make sure we got all the pieces. Sometimes we couldn't even find all the parts. Some of them were mixed together." He was crying, now, the way a person does when they are so full of emotion they cannot hold it in anymore. "Aslan, I've seen things – I'll never be able to forget what I saw there. I can't. I keep seeing them when I close my eyes. I thought we beat her. I thought we won, and – and that meant these things were done. I didn't know. I never knew." His breath came erratically, mixed with ragged sobs. "She tortured them. I could see it – I could _feel_ it. I knew how they felt, every one of them. All I had to do was look at them and I knew how they died. It hurt. It hurt so much." He turned back to Aslan. The look on his own face would have frightened him, had he been able to see it. "How could you let her do this? Why didn't you stop her?"

"There was nothing I could do," the Lion said, his voice soft with infinite sorrow.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, clearly uncomprehending. "You – all you had to do to break her curse was be here! You came back and the winter ended."

"No, child. That was you."

"I – what?"

"Or, perhaps, your sister Lucy. Do you remember the prophecy?"

"Yes."

"When your sister first set foot in Narnia, the way was no longer closed to me. I will not explain all of the Deep Magic to you; some of it you should not know, and some of it cannot be known. But you should know some of it. Enough to understand."

"Then tell me," Peter said. "Because I don't – I'm not sure that I _can."_

"The Witch's strength came from fear," Aslan said. "She gained power with every death and every hour of torture. This made her strong enough to keep even me out. The only thing I could do was what I did do – ensure that at least one door between this world and yours stayed open."

"A wardrobe in a spare room in a country house?" Peter thundered, turning to face Aslan. "How helpful was that?"

"You are here now, are you not? I know things, son of Adam. I knew that you would come eventually."

"Eventually? How many people died waiting for me?"

"What else should I have done?"

"Anything!" Peter said wildly. "Everything. I would – I'd never – throw myself naked at the walls, if I had to. I'd die before giving up on Narnia."

"So did I," the Lion said neutrally, and Peter's glare finally dropped to the floor. "But you please me, Peter. Your feelings are only due to your love of Narnia, and I can find no fault in such a love." Aslan came closer and breathed on Peter, who felt the last bruises fade from his face. "This is why you are my king."

The compliment – said with such love – in the face of his anger undid Peter completely. Aslan allowed Peter to collapse against his mane, and together they grieved. When Peter finally stilled, both his shirt and Aslan's mane were damp, and he knew not all of the tears had been his own.

"What about the others?" Peter asked. "Susan and Ed? Lucy?"

"You needed me the most, this night. They are dealing in their own ways. Your family is as strong as you are."

"I don't feel strong at all, right now," he said, passing a hand over his face. "Ugh. Lucy always has a handkerchief," he said, pulling his sleeve over the heel of his hand to wipe his eyes. "And I never do."

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yes," Peter said. "I understand." He shook his head. "I thought it was only in – Back There – that bad things happened for no reason."

"Sometimes it can happen here, child."

"How can I keep Narnia safe? I have to. It's the most important thing in my life, and – I don't even know if I can."

"You have, and you are, and you will," the Lion said. "I believe in you." Aslan drew closer, and pressed a kiss upon Peter's brow; then, in a wash of golden light, he was gone.

Peter passed a hand across his brow and, pulling together what strength he had left, set off to ensure his family was well before seeking his own bed. It was not that he didn't believe Aslan; seeing his sisters and brothers safe would bring much-needed peace to his own heart.

* * *

Time for notes.

_On gratitude:_

Before anything else, I've got to give a shout-out to Elecktrum for being a sounding board and a source of hilarity in the midst of writer's block. This one never would've gotten written without you. Thanks, also, to my meimei for putting up with me pasting paragraphs into IM and incessantly asking, does this work?

_On delays:_

I honestly had no idea how hard it was going to be for me to write the third act, so to speak, of this chapter. I wrote and rewrote pages and pages of dialogue and none of them felt _right._ Took a while to figure out what was going on in Peter's head, and once I was there the rest was easy. Sorry about that. I really hope it works for you.


	9. How Time Was Passed

_In which Lucy dances, Edmund leads a discussion, Susan offers advice, and Peter goes for a swim._

* * *

It had been two days since Peter sent Axet and his team of scouts out to find where the Humans had come from. During this time, everyone was confined to the castle grounds; in two more days, thought Tumnus, Lucy would be climbing the walls to get out. She was already climbing the trees, after all.

He'd been called to collect her at midday, when her tutors finally gave up and asked him, politely, to take her outside to burn off that energy. It wasn't excitability, Tumnus knew; it was frustration. Lucy was a wild thing and could not be kept indoors indefinitely.

So he'd brought her out to a garden, laid out a tempting spread of lunch which mostly got ignored, gave up on following her as she paced, and resigned himself to sitting on the ground practicing his flute while she climbed trees. The dryads who lived in them wanted to be helpful – or, perhaps, did not want to be known as the trees that broke the Queen's arm when she fell out of them – but she waved their helping hands away with a smile and a thank-you and ignored her skinned knees.

Tumnus watched her, and blew notes on his flute, and understood. He did not dither about whether she'd hurt herself – if she did, there was a cordial that could fix it, and while Peter said it should only be used in emergency, everyone would agree that a Lucy confined to bed rest would reach emergency status in a matter of hours. He knew the restlessness of being confined, for he too was a wild thing, not well accustomed to walls – but, at the same time, he had learned patience in a hundred years of unrelenting winter.

"When will they get back?" Lucy shouted across the garden. "I thought it would be easy! Peter said there'd be a ship."

"He thought there would," Tumnus replied, lying the flute on the thick grass. "He was mistaken. That man who came – Ordilan – he said they'd come from Galma in much smaller boats."

"I miss Aelf," she said, dropping to the ground with a thump. She crossed the grassy lawn and curled at her friend's side, resting her head on Tumnus' shoulder. "When will he be back?"

"Tomorrow, I think. If they push hard they might be back this evening."

"I hope they are. Then I could ride – if Peter will let me out—" that, accompanied with a wrinkled nose "—and he must be so frightened, surrounded by that army without me anywhere near."

"He will survive," Tumnus said. "And seeing him again will be better for the days he's been gone."

Lucy brightened at the thought. "It will."

"And now, little Queen," said Tumnus, "since you seem done with the trees, would you like to eat?"

She wrinkled her nose again.

"I thought not. In that case – how about learning a new dance?"

"Oh yes, please!"

-----

"I hate to see her so cooped up," Susan sighed, shifting her weight from one elbow to the other. The parapet on which she leaned overlooked the garden where Lucy and Tumnus were dancing.

"I know," Peter said, "but what else can I do? It won't be for long, and I'd rather have her bored than in any danger." He heaved a sigh. "This waiting is difficult, though. I feel the way she does."

She turned to him with a wry smile. "Now you know how I feel whenever you lot go gallivanting off on your adventures."

"Our adventures, I'll have you know, have kept you safe."

"I'm sure they have. I don't begrudge you your duty. I much prefer mine – but it is not always as easy as you think, especially when I don't know when or _how_ you'll come home."

Peter laughed, a carefree easy laugh, and clapped a hand to his chest. "A touch! I am defeated! Very well, my sister – I shall not tease you about it further."

"Yes you will. Especially when you've been camped out in the rain and haven't had hot food for lack of fires."

"Another touch!" he shouted, and a passing Leopard stared in surprise. "Though," he said softly, "I do wish I could have gone with Axet. He'd take me, willingly."

"Oreius would have both your heads for trying it," Susan said. "Unless he could come along to protect you."

"Never said I would. But – very well, you've admitted you sometimes dislike your position, so I can say the same. First in battle and last to retreat, as Aslan said – that part is easy. It's being the figurehead that confuses me. I don't feel any bigger or better than anyone else. I'm myself."

"By the Lion, I hope you never do grow used to it! Imagine if you'd turned into one of those stuffy old Kings from – from Back There – and had to do everything in state. Imagine if you were obsessed with protocol and decorum."

"Pah," Peter grinned. "Decorum is your field, sister."

"I'm well aware of that," she said tartly. "And yet – you do it well, when you need to. You're both, you know."

"I'm both what?"

"You're yourself and the High King. You're my brother and the figurehead the rest of Narnia rallies around. You make it sound like you have to be one thing or the other, but that's not true."

"You make it sound so simple," Peter said.

"It is, as I see it."

A whoop came from the garden below, and both young monarchs leaned back over the parapet to watch Lucy spin through the air.

"She's gone native," Peter said.

"She's what?"

"She's more Narnian than the rest of us put together, I think. She doesn't remember Back There as well as we do."

"How lucky for her," Susan mused. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."

"Do you remember the air-raids?"

"Yes."

"What if something had happened to one of us, then?"

"You worry too much, brother," said Susan. "Keep your mind here – we've troubles enough."

"It's not that," said Peter. "I know it's nothing to worry about, but it is something to _think_ about. Knowing that we got out of there – it makes us stronger, I think. We've survived things nobody in this world can know."

"You would put it that way," said Susan after a moment's consideration. "And you know, I think you're right. All of it – even how distanced we were from each other – has made us stronger. It's as though our time in that world was merely to prepare us for Narnia."

"Maybe it was."

Susan smiled at her brother. "How do you come up with these things?"

"Comes of being hit in the head so much."

---------

The shining eastern sea was, nominally, Lucy's domain; however, this did not stop any of the Pevensies from indulging in a walk on the beach. Peter had had to invent what felt like far too many excuses to gain some idle time on the shore. He was, he thought, enjoying the feel of sun-warmed sand beneath bare feet far more than he would ever expect.

The water glowed greenish in the shallows, shifting to a brilliant blue in the distance. His foot snagged on a strand of seaweed – mermaid hair, he remembered absently; back where he had been a child people had called it mermaid hair and showed it to children. He wondered, then, when he had last been a child. Certainly Narnia had ended his childhood – and was that such a horrid thing, growing up? He'd always thought it would be, but now that he was, it didn't seem bad at all.

He plucked another strand of seaweed from between his toes and ran it through his hands as he walked. The mermaids' hair in Narnia was nothing like this, although it was not like human hair, or centaurs' or fauns' hair either. He wrapped it in a tight ball and pitched it out over the water, enjoying the simple act of a throw with a strong arm.

Half a moment later a significantly larger wad of seaweed flew back from the water and splatted into his side. Peter whirled, his hand automatically reaching for the small sidearm he wore even in safe places, and his eyes caught the glint of mermaid heads bobbing above the water. Their laughter trilled out to him. Smiling, he cast about for another wad of seaweed and threw it at them. One leapt into the air, spinning and shining, and caught it before it hit the water.

It became a game, as Peter and the mermaids tried to lob handfuls of seaweed at each other. Like most Narnian games, the rules were unclear, but the point seemed to be for the mermaids to try to hit Peter, and for Peter to make the mermaids' catches as difficult as possible. The game grew increasingly complicated, with Peter ducking and whirling nearly as much as he would on the battlefield, and the mermaids executing ever more skillful flips and jumps in the air.

"All right!" he bawled, laughing, as three wads of seaweed hit him at once. "I concede! Pax!"

The mermaids only laughed and raised beckoning arms to him.

Peter dropped his shirt and knife belt in a pile on the sand and, clad only in his breeches, waded out where the mermaids waited, at the edge of the seafloor shelf where the shallows dropped. He took their outstretched hands in his own, and laid kisses on their knuckles, and they trilled at him in their strange melodic voices before towing him out to the open sea.

------

"What reception are we likely to expect?" Oreius asked.

This, Edmund thought, was a discussion that should have happened days ago. As far as he was concerned, discussion should preclude action – though, as his restless brother and general had a tendency of overruling him, he had often found himself traversing Cair Paravel from end to end in a quest for information.

"They likely will be as I was, at first," Ordilan said. "If you ask for parley you will be given it, but do not expect a warm reception. We had no reason to believe this castle was inhabited by those friendly to us – only that the winter had ended and the promised relief did not come."

"And this relief," Cloudstrike asked, "will you please tell me again what it was?"

"With a will, Master," Ordilan said. "The last messenger we received from Cair Paravel had informed us that the King had ridden out to battle, in the wild lands east of Lantern Waste. We were told to take shelter and—"

"Wait, wait," Edmund interrupted. "Shelter from what?"

"All the year previous we had been under increased attack from creatures long thought gone. There was one dragon, especially, which had plagued us heavily in the months before the winter. That is why we dug the caverns, so that we would have a fireproof place to escape. When we realized we would be – ah – _interred_ longer than we had anticipated, we enlarged the shelters and covered the exits with stones."

"How many people would you estimate are still on Galma?" Oreius asked.

"Not many. Perhaps a hundred, and of those most are elders. Most of us had already escaped to Archenland or Calormen. Those who were left – that made it to safety – were hesitant about having children. Many feared they would die without ever again seeing the sun."

"And they did," Edmund muttered.

"Too true, Sire. The children there now are the second generation born underground."

"But they have come back to the surface since, have they not?" Oreius asked.

"Partially. There was not much left – the Witch's armies were thorough in their destruction. Remember, too, that we did not know how things fared in Narnia. We planted crops and cut down trees with as much care to concealment as we could take. We continued to live underground. We feared that the Witch was weaker, but alive, and did not want her to realize some of us had survived."

"And then you came here," Edmund continued, "and found us." He laughed, softly, to himself. "That had to be a shock."

"_I_ did," Ordilan corrected, "and it was. I was sent as a scout – remember, Sire, there were only four-and-twenty of us – and I was expected to report back by the next day. By now, they must think me dead. We took great pains to avoid being seen."

"And when you came here?" Oreius asked, as gently as possible, but in a tone of voice which still strongly implied Ordilan should, at the very least, spend two winters in the stocks.

"When I came here, I admit, I lost control," Ordilan said humbly. "The royal family in Narnia could not have forgotten Galma, so my thought was only that Paravel was filled with impostors."

"An understandable mistake," Edmund said smoothly, and with a sharp look at Oreius the General relaxed. "If we had known of your plight we would have been there at once."

"For all that," Ameia said, "you did hide remarkably well. Our scouts saw nothing when they explored the island."

"Then perhaps we did the job a bit too well," Ordilan replied softly.

"Enough of history," Oreius said after a pause. "What do we face now?"

"Three and twenty men," Edmund answered, "all remarkably well-skilled at concealment. I daresay I'd like to hire some of them on as trainers in the army after this is over," he said to Oreius, who nodded. "They do not know us, and likely think us imposters, but will not attack unless provocation is given."

"We landed – here," Ordilan said, pointing to the large wall map. "Our maps are different, so I do not know if it is named the same. We called it Glasswater."

"Hah!" Edmund barked out one short, sharp laugh before regaining his composure and gesturing for Ordilan to continue.

"From there we went some ways up here," he pointed, "and when I parted form the men they were bivouacked here. I was told that they would wait one day and no longer, and if I did not return they would assume me dead."

"As would be possible, in a time of war," Ameia nodded.

"We informed Axet of this, before he set out," Edmund added, rising and approaching the map. "Their search has been focused to the south of Cair Paravel, and east of the Rush – you know it can be a difficult crossing this time of year."

"I think I have what I need, Sire," Oreius said, clearly wanting to assemble the troops and have things in readiness for Axet's return.

"Go then," Edmund said, "and keep me apprised of what you do."

"Of course, Sire," Oreius said, departing.

"If I may make a request," asked Cloudstrike, who had been quiet until this moment, "I would like to meet with this Man and hear his history. I daresay the Queen Susan would as well."

"So would I," Edmund agreed. "If you two can find some time in your busy schedules – we're free," he said, indicating Ordilan, "until Axet comes back."

"I will speak with her, then," Cloudstrike said, and with that the meeting ended.

Ordilan followed Edmund as respect and some surviving Galman protocol required: one step behind, and one to the right. As unnerved as Edmund was by this, he took it and the rest of the man's actions for what they were: an elaborate, unspoken apology for his previous misconduct.

"How do you think it will go?" Edmund asked.

"Privately? If _you_ speak to them, Sire, it will still take a few days."

"That bad?"

Ordilan shrugged. "They won't have had the experience of expecting an executioner and instead receiving a king's pardon. That tends to soften one up."

"I imagine it does," Edmund laughed.

"If I may say so, Sire – and I mean no disrespect – your family is nothing like the Humans I have known."

"How is that?"

The older man shook his head. "You are older, somehow. Wiser. As though something has set you apart, or perhaps brought you maturity without age. Are you _sure_ that you are not enchanted?"

"As sure as I can be," Edmund said. "Though – something did set us apart."

"Will I ever meet him?"

"I hope so."

---------

Happiness suffused Peter, and as he rolled to float on his back he gave in to the urge to laugh uncontrollably. The rollers buffeted him about, and the mermaids' bodies – skin slick with water, but warm to the touch – crowded in on him at all sides. One took his hands and pressed her back to her chest, then pulling his arms close about her neck, went rocketing off across the surface of the water. Together they gathered speed and, with a flick of the mermaid's strong tail, went spinning into the air. Peter screamed in sheer delight, and as they landed, not even the mouthful of salt water bothered him. He separated from that mermaid and had only just returned to the surface for a fresh breath of air before they gathered close. They took his hands and towed him below.

Under the water, their breasts and bellies flashed pale and green in the sunlight. Peter remembered – or thought he could – a time when things like that were thought wrong to see, and he wondered why. The mermaids dove, their fish-tails glittering silver and green, and beckoned him to follow. He glanced up towards the surface and held his hands out, in a pantomime of apology. The mermaids smiled, flashing their strange teeth, and laughed at him in a way that reminded him of dolphins.

They came near to him, moving in concert much as a school of fish would. One came close to his face – close enough that he could see her gills, pale white and pink, fluttering below her jawbone – and took his face in his hands. She pressed her mouth to his, and he felt fresh air flood his lungs. He exhaled, and a stream of silvery bubbles shot towards the surface. The mermaid bent her face to his to give another breath. As Peter grasped her shoulder, he could feel the water rushing up towards her gills, which by some strange alchemy turned the water to air.

Breath by breath, the laughing school of mermaids led Peter ever downward, until the sandy bottom was well within sight. A sheer wall rose in the distance, and Peter knew that he faced the bottom of the cliff which protected Cair Paravel. The mermaids grew quieter and, in a way, more respectful as they neared a cave-mouth in the rock wall.

The light turned the water a deep blue, though it was no less clear. Peter glanced up briefly to see the sunlight glittering on the surface, some distance above his head. His mermaid escort peeled off, one by one, and posed deferentially as they landed on the ocean floor. The last mermaid stayed near, giving Peter breath as needed, with one arm around his waist, and eventually they too landed on the sand.

In the mouth of the cave was a merman – old, Peter thought, and dignified. His head bore a crown made of rock and coral, green with algae; his eyes flashed dark and dangerous; his white beard was tangled with bladderwrack and barnacles; the tips of his fins were ragged with age. In his right hand was a dagger, and in his left a strangely curved sword. Both were made of a white material which glistened and flashed in the light.

He gestured towards Peter, who for half a moment felt fear. Peter pressed his face to the mermaid's, taking another breath. He did the only thing he could think to do: dropped to his knees while raising a salute that had, until this moment, only been used in jest. It was a salutation between Kings.

The sea-king, for so he was, responded in kind – though he did not lower his sword.

* * *

Notes time:

_On thanks:_  
Thanks, again, to Elecktrum for advice and idea-slinging and joke telling. Thanks, too, to the1hobbit, for letting me play with your sketches. Airbrushing is fun. And, lastly, to the pilots who flew me to and fro last week: drinks on me. I highly recommend Delta, y'all.

_On the ocean:_  
I think Elecktrum's idea should be law. Peter plus water equals trouble. Notice nobody ever mentions him being on a ship?

_On Galmans:_  
Everything I know about people living underground for generations comes from the original Fallout games. What? Never heard of them? For shame. They rocked. Also, I can't get it out of my head that Ordilan would be played by Willem Dafoe. Take that as you will.

_On swords:_  
The Sea-King has a cutlass. Where do you think pirates got the idea?


	10. Strange Weather

_In which histories are told, duels are fought, and a storm gathers._

* * *

Ordilan, hands clasped behind his back, turned on a heel and followed an invisible line across the cold fireplace. "I do not quite know where to begin," he said.

"I feel rather as though we've put you on the spot," Susan said gently, trying to add levity to her voice.

"Nay, Queen – I said that I would do this for you, and I do it gladly, but – one thing of necessity follows another. I do not know where to start my tale."

Behind Ordilan's pacing sat Susan; behind her stood Cloudstrike; beside him stood Edmund; behind them sat a trio of Narnian scribes, ink and pen at the ready to copy down Ordilan's words.

"I am no storyteller," Ordilan said, with an apologetic glance at his audience, "least of all not in the grand Calormene tradition – some of us remember enough of how they told tales for pale renditions of our own stories around a fire. So – very well. The King. His name was Edward, of a direct paternal line from Frank the First."

"Frank the whom?" Edmund interrupted. "Was he the one who—"

"If you'd _read_ my notes!" Susan snapped, motherlike, shushing him and waving a sheaf of paper.

"Please," said Cloudstrike, "continue. I am familiar with that tale."

"Very well. Edward was a good man, by all accounts; he dealt fairly with foreign nations, he raised his heirs with an error to over-indulgence; he bestowed upon his Queen Nora all manner of solicitous attention."

"He had children?" Susan asked.

"Two daughters and a son," Ordilan replied. "Born in that order."

"Did they—" Susan's face grew pale as she realized the implications of that knowledge. She did not press her question. After a pause, Ordilan continued.

"The trouble came in the spring of his twelfth year of reign, which began after the death of his father Frank the Eighth. There had been rumors of a threat in the west. A Calormene trader's caravan was attacked, and when the survivors were found in Archenland they blamed Narnia. There was much work to ensure the Tisroc that Narnia was not at fault. It did not help, I suppose, that the survivors spoke of a woman styling herself Queen of Narnia, before whom they had been brought and bade to bargain for their lives."

"As they would for silk or spice," Edmund muttered. "It would have amused her."

Ordilan waited for the flurry of nibs on paper to desist before continuing. "At any rate – some survived, enough to tell the tale – and diplomatic negotiations between Narnia and Calormen were strained. The countries were never on good terms at the best of times. When attacks came from the Western Wild, a delegation was sent to Calormen to request aid."

"Calormen always kept a large standing army," Cloudstrike offered.

"Indeed," Ordilan said. "This was their hope. Those Narnians who survived the trip back could only tell King Edward that the Tisroc had implied this was the deserved fate of a people who foreswore Tash in favor of their barbaric ways."

-----

A cold gust ruffled the trees and raised goose pimples on Lucy's skin. Lucy shifted uncomfortably, pressing closer to Tumnus' side. The little Faun and his favorite friend had spent the later part of the afternoon in the garden; once Lucy's energy had been worn down with tree-climbing and dancing lessons, a book had been brought out (one of Lucy's favorites, _Is Man A Myth?_, which she considered a "silly story" and Tumnus, chagrined, had tried to explain that it was a compendium of stories that, until recent and currently giggling proof had appeared, were more-or-less considered to be true) and Lucy drifted, half-asleep, relaxed and comforted by her friend's voice.

Something had pulled her to wakefulness, and not in a comfortable way; she rubbed her eyes and looked around the garden. The late-afternoon sun threw blurred shadows across the grass. The air seemed strangely still – usually at this time a breeze blew in from the sea – but its stillness was punctuated by short, swift, cold gusts.

"Tumnus," she said, interrupting her friend midsentence, "does anything seem different?"

He looked around. "It does, rather, but I'm not sure how. The light is—"

"Wrong," Lucy said. "It looks wrong." And it did – the clean Narnian sunlight had gone yellow and hazy, turning the cool green garden into a drab caricature of itself. If Lucy had been just a little older, she would have realized how closely the light resembled city smog: the late-afternoon incendiary glow of London reeling from a night's heavy bombing.

"I don't like it," she said, awash in a near-instinctive fear.

Tumnus closed the book and set it aside; he stood, brushing grass from his furry legs. "I can't see over the walls, but it almost looks as though a storm is coming in."

"Not a storm," Lucy said, her face pale. "It's something else – something bad. Like something Back There."

"There can't be anything too wrong," the Faun said, forcing cheerfulness in his voice, "or else we'd have heard something from someone." It was a flat lie: Lucy's sense of foreboding was infectious, or perhaps the eerie light was – whatever was wrong, Tumnus sensed it too. He instinctively drew near Lucy, who mimicked his movement: two wild things turning to each other for protection.

"I can't see," Lucy said, looking at the walls. "There's something out there, but I can't see it. If I could get somewhere higher—"

"We can," Tumnus said, kneeling to pack away the books and untouched food in his leather bag. "Put your boots on." The hair pickled on the back of his neck; his long ears shifted this way and that as cold gusts shot through the oddly still air. He packed his bag quickly but carefully, slung it over a shoulder, and took Lucy's hand. He checked her to be sure she had not forgotten anything: the silver crown sat askew on her head and ridiculously bright red boots protected her feet. "Come with me. We can see better from one of the watch towers."

"Are you scared?" she asked, as they crossed the garden.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes."

-----

"Archenland sent what help she could, but it was not enough. Come summer, Calormen was threatening war. King Edward sent a message back requesting them to wait, as he was far too busy trying to maintain order in his own country."

"I like his style," Edmund snorted.

Ordilan turned his back to his listeners and spent a moment to gather his thoughts. "Things in Narnia had, at that point, become grim indeed. There were tales of Ettins rampaging wild on the Northern borders; there were monsters emerging from the deep sea; there were creatures long thought dead emerging from the Western Wild. And there was a rumor of the one behind it all – she who styled herself Queen of Narnia. She could not be killed, it was said. It was death to look upon her; it was madness to hear her voice. She called herself the White Queen."

-----

The sea-king, with a swish of his ragged tail, approached Peter, pausing to give his sword to one of the circled mermaids. The sea-king took Peter by the chin, tilting his head to examine his face. He nodded, finally, and released Peter, turning away as though the young king was not worthy of further examination. The mermaids sang out to their leader, although Peter did not know what was said.

Under the water, the mermaids' speech sounded entirely different: full of echoes, the strange trills shifting like deep-sea currents. Peter realized, after a moment of awed listening, that this was the first Narnian thing he'd encountered that seemed truly alien.

The sea-king's voice, when he responded, reminded Peter of immovable nature: the groaning of a tree under heavy winter snow, or perhaps the shifting of rock deep within a Dwarven mine. One of the mermaids took the sword from the sea-king and brought it into the cavern, returning with another curious knife, which she pressed into Peter's hand.

He turned it over, examining it. The pommel, handle, and hilt were made of salt-scarred stone, rough under his fingers. It had no decoration, nor did it need any: the milky-white blade gleamed in the blue deep-sea light. Peter wondered what it would look like above the water.

The mermaid who clung to Peter and gave him breath shifted under his arm, lifting herself up so that she floated at a near right-angle from the column of Peter's body. She wound his arm about her neck and stayed there, the small fins down her back fluttering so that she would not drift. Posed thus, Peter was free to move and could still breathe as necessary. He smiled at the mermaid in thanks, and when she next bent her head to give him breath, it more closely resembled a lingering kiss.

The sea-king spoke again, his voice the groan of an ancient mountain, and as the distorted sounds hit Peter's ears they resolved themselves into a form of Old Language. Peter was not sure what was said, but it was a short phrase – something to do with the shattering of a knife? Peter glanced down at the blade in his hand.

The sea-king, having issued his orders and his challenge, struck a basic knife-fighting pose. Peter stared in disbelief, but even as his mind tried to catch up, his body responded. Oreius would be pleased, Peter noted absently to himself, that his emphasis on instinct had taken root. Slowly – for he was still learning how to compensate for the difference in motion underwater – Peter adopted a defensive posture which, his bones and muscles knew, was perfectly matched to the sea-king's attack.

The sea-king paused and nodded, as though Peter had passed some form of test. He then tried another posture, slightly more advanced, slightly more formal. Peter again responded instinctively, and he noticed the sea-king's impassive expression gave way to a glimmer of approval.

This continued for some time, in the twilit blue of the ocean floor: without contact, and seemingly without effort, Peter and the sea-king met each other in a combat as slow as the procession of nature itself.

------

"You must understand, Majesties," clarified Cloudstrike, "that your entry to this world was not an unusual thing – though it was rather unexpected. There have been doorways opened from the world of Men since Aslan set the stars in the sky. There were Men in Archenland, and in Calormen – should those places remain today I expect they are there still."

"But none in Narnia?" Susan asked. "Aslan said that a Son of Adam should always rule Narnia."

"Not many," Cloudstrike said. "And none, at the end."

"What about Narnians elsewhere?" Edmund asked.

"As our tales tell it," answered Ordilan, "there are no Talking Beasts anywhere else, nor are there Talking Trees, nor the people of the forest."

"Narnia is Aslan's country," Cloudstrike said, "an echo of his true Country beyond the sleeping-place of the Sun. I could tell you those stories, if you wished."

"Another time," Edmund said. "Ordilan?"

"The Tisroc – long may he _rot_ – decided that the best course of action was to wait. He had long wanted to take these free Northern countries under his rule, and he thought that should events in Narnia collapse further, he may see his chance."

"Bastard," muttered Edmund.

"Very," Ordilan said with a grin. "I should like to have words with his descendants, if there are any. For it was with his implicit permission that the White Queen's – I dare not call them _people,_ Majesties – began selling slaves in Calormen."

"They what?" Susan gasped.

"Narnia was always a land of the forest-folk," Cloudstrike said, "but at one time they lived side by side with Humans. The false Queen had decided that the Narnian humans were the biggest threat. So she removed them. One group after another. There were not many." Cloudstrike paused, cleared his throat, and with a grateful bow of the head and shoulders accepted a cup of water from Edmund. "There was fighting everywhere – raids in the night – those places said to shelter Humans were often attacked, though their neighbors would not hear or see the attackers passing. Many Humans fled to Archenland. I helped some of them. That is how I got this," the Centaur said, lifting his thick beard to show a scar hidden on his man-chest.

Susan, pale-faced, stilled her trembling hands on her lap. "Do you think that our countrymen are still lost in Archenland and Calormen?"

"Their descendants, Majesty," Ordilan said. "And by now, I doubt that they would wish to return."

"But if they're slaves—" Edmund argued.

"One thing at a time, good King," Cloudstrike said, laying a quieting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let this man finish his story."

-----

Peter's muscles ached, in a way Edmund would probably be able to explain; in a way that felt, to him, like the ache of a deep-sea current longing to break the surface. The stone knife handle felt strange and heavy in his hand. The sea-king was distant but relentless, and Peter's heart hammered heavy in his breast. The mermaid pressed her mouth to his more and more frequently, and as he dropped to his knees, arms tense, back arched, dagger-point flashing in defence, he wondered whether it was considered manly to die in a duel in which no blood was shed.

The sea-king nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. Peter's knee scraped over a rock, and he glanced down at a tiny curling blossom of blood diffusing in the water. The light seemed different, somehow; dark and sinister.

The sea-king gently cupped Peter's face in his hands, sliding one down to press two fingers against the throbbing pulse-point in his throat. Peter was aware of the fingers, as rough as salt-eaten limestone; he was aware of the dark searching eyes, ancient and intelligent.

The sea-king beckoned the circle of waiting mermaids forth. They swarmed Peter, sliding their hands along his body as if to reassure themselves by touch that he was unharmed. Peter let himself go limp, and let them behave as they would – his only concern, now, was getting more air. They pressed their mouths to his, one after another, and at another gesture from the sea-king they drew back.

Peter glanced from the sea-king to the ocean floor, sandy beneath his knees, and then to the surface water, far above, which glittered with a sickly light. Knife tightly clutched in his hands, King Peter saluted the sea-king. He kicked off from the ocean floor, all his thoughts _up_ – up to light, up to air, up to Narnia.

-------

"There is not much left to tell," Ordilan continued. "Fall was coming on early, and nobody knew why. Archenland could offer no further help. Calormen did not wish to, and indeed was massing armies near the borders. Things within Narnia had grown desperate. King Edward rode to meet the Witch on a field of battle, three days north of this castle. He asked that his staff secure castle Cair Paravel and then leave for Galma, which by that time was nearly empty."

"Three days north," Edmund repeated, glancing at Cloudstrike.

"Why was Galma abandoned?" asked Susan.

"Galma was attacked by – I do not know the names of these things. They came from the deep sea and they came from the air, and we knew that the Witch had called them forth. Many men died, and many more escaped – they thought that they would fare better on the mainland. What fate befell those in Narnia, I can only guess. Some, however, had to have escaped to Archenland, or to Calormen. The Lone Islands, perhaps, fared better. I do not know their fate. Those who remain in Galma, to this day – some are Galmans, and some are descended from those who used to live and work in this very castle."

"And King Edward?" Edmund asked.

"This is where my story ends, Sire. I can only assume he failed."

------

Cair Paravel sported several watch-towers, but the tower Tumnus and Lucy climbed – both the tallest and oldest – was not one in regular use. "A new coat of paint," Peter had laughed, "bit of carpentry, and all will be right with it again." But the tower's restoration had fallen along the wayside, ignored in favor of more important matters.

Lucy wrapped her thin summer cloak around her and wondered if Tumnus felt the cold. Probably not, she thought, recalling that he wore nothing in winter but a thick scarf. Tumnus ignored the wind and the eerie light. He kept one of Lucy's hands clasped in his own; he watched his hooves as they climbed the stone stairs; he tried not to be aware of the motion of the tower as it swayed in the stiff wind. When they reached the top, he shrugged back to the comforting wall. Lucy broke free of his hands and darted to the edge, leaning over the wooden railings. Reluctantly, Tumnus followed.

"Bit cold up here," Lucy gasped.

"Are you all right?" he asked, rubbing her shoulders briskly with his hands.

"I can see everything!"

"Have you not been in a tower before?"

"Not this one. Look – there's our garden!" Lucy smiled to herself, darting from one side of the tower to the other to see which familiar spots she could find.

A plume of dust caught Tumnus' attention. "Look, Lucy – that must be the army returning from the Witch's castle. They seem to be moving quickly."

"Must be, with all that dust. Something is wrong, Tumnus."

"I know," he said, gathering her near and turning her away from the army. "Look – look out there. Do you remember the last time we saw Aslan, on the beach?"

"After the coronation," she smiled. "Do you remember what we did the next day?"

Tumnus laughed. "Cast a Lion's footprint in the sand. I had quite a time getting the plaster from the Dwarves."

Lucy tilted her head, thinking. She let the stiff wind blow her hair back. "Do you remember, I used to have nightmares?"

"Yes."

"I took that footprint from my drawer and put it under my pillow." A small smile. "They went away."

The pair stood there for a while, in tense silence. Lucy's body shook slightly with the cold, though she ignored it; both were too busy watching dark clouds scudding across the sickly yellow-grey sky.

"Wind's picking up," Tumnus said, eventually.

"The waves are stronger, too."

"We should go back, soon. I expect you'd like to be waiting to greet Aelf."

"The silly," she smiled. "What is that, there, in the water?"

"Where?"

"That. The dark thing in the waves."

"It almost looks like a person," said Tumnus. "Why? What is the matter?"

For Lucy had gone still at his side. "Peter," she whispered.

* * *

_On delays:_  
I know, I suck, I'm sorry. I've been crazy busy lately -- couple that with a wicked case of writer's block and, well, radio-silence ensues. But, see, I came back. I'm here now. It's okay. Why don't you sit down and I'll fix you a cuppa.

_On calms before storms:_  
Have you ever seen a hurricane come in? It looks like that.

_On lengthy histories:_  
I hope I didn't bore you, dumping the whole thing out in one go like this. Ordilan's storytelling owes a few things to the Bene Gesserit of Dune, and Teal'c from Stargate.

_On breathing underwater:_  
Almyra's got sharper eyes (or a sharper brain) than me: without even realizing it, I grabbed the mermaid-assisted buddy breathing from the Hook movie. But my mermaids are a bit wilder. More.. fishy.

_On soundtracks:_  
This chapter was -heavily- inspired by the song 'Hun Jord' by Sigur Rós. Creepy, foreboding, cool as hell.


	11. An Unnecessary Rescue

_In which a rescue is mounted and Peter is given a rare chance to relax._

* * *

Peter's soul, his mind, his heart, his body: all focused on motion. All were focused up. Up was light, was air, was Narnia. Up was welcome distance from the alien stillness of the ocean floor; up was the boisterous cheerfulness of his dear and much-loved subjects. Countrymen, perhaps, as Peter felt that his coronation canceled out the accident of his having been born elsewhere. 

His left arm hung at his side uselessly; the tiny fragment of his mind not lost to motion kept the sea-king's dagger tightly clenched in his fist. It was important, Peter knew. Someone would know what the knife meant. Edmund would know; he knew everything. Ed, thought Peter, I'm terribly sorry about having almost drowned, but I've come back with this rather remarkable knife and if you could tell me what you know about it – as you seem to know everything – and how do you do that, anyway – Ed, shout at me later, this knife is more important.

The knife and the motion. Nothing else mattered.

Above Peter and the ocean, the air swirled in cold gusts. It whipped the waves into frothy whitecaps, and for the first time Peter heard the slap of the sea against the shore.

Waves. Waves were up. Peter could hear the waves; Peter was nearly at the surface. He was almost finished. The surface was there, glittering above him.

Irrationally, delightedly, Peter opened his mouth and laughed. A stream of silver bubbles shot past him to show the way.

------

Ordilan's tale was fascinating, as much for the things it said as for those it omitted. Susan had been going over the copied tale much as a teacher would a student's story; she made notes to herself to ask further questions about one point or another. The careful rebuilding of Narnia's history had, she thought, taught her a thing or two about an incomplete narrative. Susan glanced up from her notes as one of the castle attendants came in to light the lamps mounted on the library walls.

"Has it gotten that late, Kiros?" she asked, laying her quill down. "I fear I've let the day escape me entirely."

"Nay, Majesty," came the reply, "but the light is failing. Perhaps a storm approaches."

"Seems powerful odd," one of the Dwarves muttered.

Susan rose with a graceful swirling of skirts and made her way to a window. Outside the still air was suffused with a sickly yellow light. She turned to Cloudstrike, who joined her at the window.

"I have never seen the like," she muttered, as though the very air commanded low voices.

"I have. This is no ordinary storm, my queen," the Centaur said gravely. "The last time I saw such a thing was..." He shook his head, as though to clear mental cobwebs. "A hundred years ago."

"The witch?" Susan asked.

"Yes."

"How?"

"I cannot even guess, Majesty," Cloudstrike replied.

The yellow light, dashed against Susan's face, made her seem a sickly caricature of herself. "Where is my family?" she asked, raising her voice so that the Narnians in the room paused to hear her. "Find them, at once."

-----

_Thunk._ "I think my skill improves with drunkenness."

"Do I have to order you, sir?" _Scrape-scrape-scrape._ "I could, you know."

"I'm well aware of that." A pause. "I am as hoarse as your Raven friend."

"I shan't learn it otherwise."

_Thunk._ "I am not sure this is the time for it."

_Scrape-scrape-scrape._ "Can you think of a better one?"

A sigh. "As his Majesty insists."

"He does."

_Thunk._ "I took a stroll on the old long walk of the day-i-ay-i-ay. Met a little girl and we stopped to talk of a grand soft day-i-ay!"

_Scrape-scrape-scrape._ "And I ask you friends, what's a fellow to do, 'cause her hair was black and her eyes were—"

_Thunk._ "Blue, Sire."

"Blue. Blue. Her hair was black and her eyes were blue." _Scrape-scrape-scrape._

Edmund and Ordilan had taken sanctuary in one of the small walled gardens, ostensibly for kitchen herbs but currently lying fallow, near the training-grounds. A rough wooden table nearby bore the carnage of a well-demolished lunch: greasy cutlery, dirty napkins, and a stack of chicken bones thoroughly stripped of meat. Both ignored the wreckage. Edmund, knife in hand, was surrounded by wood chips and shavings, while Ordilan casually reduced a wooden target board to splinters with well-aimed knife throws. If any of the castle staff were offended by the singers' utter disregard for tone or key, they wisely kept their feelings to themselves.

_Thunk._ "You are fond of our songs, Sire?"

"Very. They have a different sound than the forest music." Edmund shifted the lump of wood in his lap, examining it. "How does it look?"

"Very like a rook."

"It does not."

"It will," said Ordilan, pulling several lightweight throwing knives out of the target, "when you have finished. Your horse plays chess?"

"He should start. Peter and I play it in our heads when we're riding. He's learned a lot without ever looking at a board. I imagine he'll be hard to beat."

Ordilan took a few steps back, sighted along the edge of a knife, and let it fly. _Thunk._ "I would like to meet him."

"You will. They ought to be getting back tonight. Hopefully won't run into your – countrymen."

"I doubt that, Sire. They would avoid a large military party."

"No more suicidal heroes?" Edmund asked wryly.

"Just the one," Ordilan said with a smirk. _Thunk._ "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"My life. My second chance."

"I got one," Edmund said, deflecting the praise. "I can hardly give less to anybody else." He glanced up to find Ordilan studying him intently.

The older man shook it off and turned to throw another knife. _Thunk._ "And I knew right then I'd be taking a whirl 'round the salt-hill pond with a Galman girl!"

-------

The tower was tall, and the stair both narrow and tightly wound. Lucy's riding boots hit each step with a thud as she ran. She felt herself spiraling, like a fallen leaf – down and _down,_ down to the ground to bolt across the courtyard and thence to the sea. Tumnus clattered along behind her, his hooves banging a staccato counterpoint to her frightened heart. He asked her something once, and then again more loudly, shouting in the imperative to jar Lucy out of her single-minded purpose.

"No," she replied, between sharp breaths. "No time. Tell someone – my cordial – in my bedroom on my little table. They can follow me."

"Us," he replied. "I'm going with you."

----------

Old habits die hard, as any Badger will tell you. The great need for secrecy during the hundred-year winter had given birth to an airtight system of messengers; armed with code phrases and relatively advanced methods of alphanumeric encryption, a message could take less than a day to travel from Lantern Waste to castle Cair Paravel. Edmund had taken some pains to keep this network intact, claiming that good things can come from bad times, and explaining that, Lion willing, while he hoped there would never be a need for such a system he would rather have it ready. After much protestation that the system be kept to serious business, Edmund's tone changed when Axet informed him that this kept everyone in practice. Thus, when a Falcon alighted on its King's shoulder and hissed a message into a waiting ear, Edmund – after quick mental transliteration – was expecting nothing more than a complaint about berry bushes or, perhaps, fishing rights.

What he learned instead made him drop his carving-knife.

"Ordilan."

"Sire?"

"The army returns – and they have been attacked. Send healers to the courtyard. I will meet them there. We may need Lucy's cordial. Go at once."

"I shall, Sire."

-------

Peter tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He felt the water wash across his forehead. He did not know whether his body was cool or the sea was warm. To Peter, they were the same: his body, pushed past its limits, was one with the drift and slap of the water.

The mermaids had all gone, and he felt an odd pang of sadness when he realized he was alone. They were good company. They gave air from their bodies. They gave him life on the twilit ocean floor.

A roller washed in, briefly submerging Peter; he held his breath and waited for his face to break the surface again. He could not have moved more if he wanted to. He did not feel much like moving, either. It was enough to drift, to wait for rescue – dear Ed would come, Peter was sure, and after Ed would come reassurances and praise for a hard job well done. It was enough to wait, with the sea-king's ancient dagger clenched in his fist. He had survived the ordeal. There was nothing left to do.

--------

Tumnus followed Lucy through a winding maze of dark corridors. They darted outside for a moment, took a shortcut through some of the walled herb gardens, and dodged along a little-used hallway back inside which would lead them through to the castle courtyard.

Lucy threw herself, shoulder-first, at a pair of heavy wooden doors. With Tumnus' assistance one opened slowly, and as soon as there was enough space to admit her, Lucy slid through. Tumnus struggled with the door a moment longer before following his queen. Whatever had been going on in the courtyard, Tumnus did not know; it was clear to the Faun, though, that all had halted at the streak of disheveled hair and red boots that was Lucy racing down to the beach.

Tumnus paused, dazed by the disordered crowd around him. He turned slowly, looking for a face his shocked mind could still recognize.

"Master Tumnus!" a Satyr shouted. "We've just seen the Queen and—"

"Ameia!" Tumnus shouted, spotting the captain of the palace guard. "Send for Oreius – and for Edmund and Susan – get the cordial from Lucy's bedroom – then follow us to the beach." He paused a moment longer, decided not to say anything else, and followed the same track Lucy had taken to the shore.

The assembled creatures, surprised anew, glanced at each other.

"NOW!" shouted Tumnus, pausing briefly at the eastern gate before dashing out of sight.

After another fraction of a second's pause, Ameia snapped to action. She blew her horn for silence, then gave quick orders. Narnians flew from the courtyard as quickly as arrows shot from Susan's magical bow.

------

"By the Lion, what is going on?" Edmund shouted, fighting his way through a phalanx of healers to get to the courtyard. "Oreius? Ameia? Ordilan?"

"Your sister the Queen," a rather snuffly and Horsey voice responded, and Edmund whirled at the familiar voice to throw himself at Phillip in a tight embrace.

"Thank Aslan," Edmund said, his face buried in Phillip's neck. "I heard there'd been an attack."

"There has, Sire," said Phillip, "but I am well."

"Dirty and tired," came the voice of another Horse. "And frightened. But we're home." Aelf stepped up next to Phillip, flicking a hoof to dislodge a clod of dirt.

"Bless you both, cousins," Edmund said. "What is this about Lucy?"

"I didn't see her—"

"She came through here—"

"Tumnus was shouting—"

"You didn't even _see_ her—"

"If I had I wouldn't still _be_ here—"

"Pax!" shouted Edmund, and both Horses fell silent. "Now. Phillip. What has happened?"

"I will take you to Oreius, Sire," Phillip said, pressing the length of his head against Edmund's back to urge him to his side. "He needs to find you. It's something to do with your brother the King."

With practiced ease, Edmund leapt onto Phillip's bare back. "Let's go."

Aelf, suddenly alone, snorted and swished his tail before ambling curiously out the eastern courtyard gate. He knew he'd seen Lucy go that way, and he didn't care if Phillip thought he hadn't.

---------

Susan paused in her pacing, distracted by a faraway shout. She made her way back to a window overlooking the courtyard, and glancing through it she saw bedlam.

The army had returned, or part of it had: more than half of the palace guard were outside the gates, waiting for stragglers. Knots and clusters of her subjects were gathered around healers. Susan's eye caught the bright flash of fresh blood on linen; she swallowed hard and glanced away before steeling herself and looking back. As their Queen, she knew, she was responsible for the hurts they bore; if a Narnian freely gave of themselves and received injury in service, she should not – would not – hide from it.

She saw a blur of someone – perhaps two someones – moving down towards the beach. She glanced back at the courtyard, where fresh shouting had rung out, and saw Phillip carrying Edmund to Oreius. The two bowed their heads in discussion for a moment, then Edmund turned towards the castle. He searched the windows for a minute, then spotted Susan and directed Oreius' gaze her way. Phillip turned and carried Edmund out the eastern gate, followed by some rather bedraggled Faun footsoldiers who had only just returned.

"My Queen!" Oreius shouted up at her. "Your brothers need you!"

Susan, smiling wryly at a memory of Edmund's insistence, made the gesture the army used to signify a message received. She turned and, hitching up her skirts, made remarkably good time getting from library to courtyard.

-----

Tumnus' breath came in gasps. He had a horrible stitch in his side, and clapped a hand over it. Walking on loose dry sand was difficult enough; running on it, he thought, could ruin a Faun's legs entirely. He paused at the top of a sand dune, trying to decide the best way down.

A rhythmic thud came up behind him, and with a burst of flying sand, Aelf slid to a halt at his side.

"That's Lucy," said Aelf.

"And Peter, there in the water."

"Is he hurt?"

"I don't know. I don't think so – he's moving, do you see?"

"Everyone else is coming."

"Everyone?" Tumnus repeated, quizzically.

"Very nearly. See for yourself." Aelf turned his head, pointing with his long nose at a veritable army of Narnians led by Edmund astride Phillip.

"Wait for them," Tumnus said, before picking his way down the steep dunes.

-----

"PETER!" Lucy shrieked. She splashed her way into the water, which rose to her chest as she made her way to Peter's side.

He was not dead, nor unconscious; he floated, relaxed, letting the gentle breakers roll his body this way and that. His arms were crossed over his chest and in his hands he held a strange knife which gleamed whitely in the sun. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in his worried sister, and a wide grin broke out over his face.

"Lucy," he said gently. "I should have known you'd find me." He paused, and with great difficulty moved his eyes to study her face. "Have I frightened you?"

"Yes! Where have you been?"

"Oh, places. Bottom of the world. I'm not sure I understand it myself. Edmund might."

"He's coming," Lucy said. She turned, scanning the beach. "He's got half the army with him. My cordial, too."

"I don't need it," Peter said. "I'm fine. I'm – you'd have liked it, Lucy."

"Liked what?" She took his hand, noticing the scrapes across his knuckles.

"Where I was. Who I met. I swam with the mermaids."

"Did you?"

"Yes. They're very beautiful."

"They are."

"I met their king, too." Peter's hand squeezed Lucy's, weakly. "He tested me. I like him. I'm tired, Lu."

"But you're all right?"

"As right as Aslan."

A vague cacophony of shouting reached them: the rescue party grew closer.

"Do you hear that?" Peter asked Lucy.

"That'd be – everyone. Can you get up?"

"I'm not sure. Better wait for Ed – I don't want to knock you down."

Lucy turned and shouted over her shoulder. "He's all right! I think he was in a duel!"

"Who's that there?" Peter asked.

"Tumnus."

"Hello," Peter called out. "I'm not dead."

"I – I can see that, Sire."

Peter closed his eyes as the din arrived: "I can see him!" – "He is moving!" – "Is he talking to Lucy there?" – "What is he saying?"

"Time to be strong again, Peter," Lucy whispered, bending close to his ear. Peter floated for a second longer, then squeezed Lucy's hand in response. She understood, Lion bless her – somehow, she knew. She always knew. A moment later he found himself fairly well swarmed. He took a deep breath and was a King once more.

"Thank the Lion!" Susan breathed in relief. "Are you hurt?"

"Not in the slightest," Peter assured her. "Ed, help me up."

"But your knee—"

"I only skinned it on some rocks, like any idiot could," he said, taking Edmund's arm to steady himself as his feet found the bottom. He stood and stretched. "I have had a time."

"What's that?" Edmund asked, reaching for the dagger.

"Little present," Peter said, turning to make his way back to shore. "I'll tell you the whole thing when I get a chance to dry off," he said, holding a hand up to his face and examining his fingers.

On the beach, the rest of the search party eagerly waited to greet their king.

"Tumnus!" Peter shouted. "Just the chap I wanted to see!"

"I am?" the Faun asked.

"You are. What does eta kooram na smech mean?"

The Faun thought for a second. "To fragment – I will it—" He paused, mentally translating. "It can't translate literally, but – the gist of it – 'may your blade chip and shatter.' I think." He glanced at Oreius, who nodded.

"I'll have to remember that," Peter said. "I quite like the sound of it." He looked around at the rest of his welcoming committee. "What news have we?" he asked, turning to his brother.

His loving brother, his hold-the-fort-will-you-Ed brother, his mount-the-rescue-will-you-Ed brother, his organize-the-entire-army-will-you-Ed brother, planted a hand in the middle of his chest and shoved, hard.

"You're a prat, Peter Pevensie," Edmund said, turning on his heel and stalking away. The crowd of loyal subjects, to a Beast, skipped backwards to clear a path for him.

Utterly poleaxed, Peter pushed the mop of wet hair from his brow to better watch Edmund's retreating figure.

"I've known _that_ since I was five," Lucy said absently, taking Peter's hand to pull him back to his feet. "But Ed's always been a bit slow."

* * *

This chapter was brought to you by the singer Moby, the number 11, and the letters NHL. Go Bolts! 

_On singing:_  
Ordilan's song is a bastardization of "Galway Girl," originally by Steve Earle. I prefer the version by Mundy. It's a fun sing-along that makes you want to keep time by thunking your empty beer mug down on the bar.

_On people made of awesomeness:_  
Elecktrum, as usual, rocks hardcore. The joke scene at the end is all her nefarious doing. Love must also be sent to the1hobbit, who flatters and thrills me with her fantastic fan-art. I want her to illustrate _everything_.

_On hypoxia:_  
That would be #57 on the list of Things I Thought I'd Never Need To Research For A Narnian Fanfic. Standard symptoms are fatigue, fainting, cyanosis ("the patients were cynical—" "Cyanotic!"), delirium, wonky body temperature, and so forth. Everything I know about free diving I learned from Luc Besson, and he was more interested in metaphors involving dolphins, so I've probably got some things wrong.

_On references:_  
Peter's little phrase of Old Narnian is from somewhere. Tumnus' translation is from somewhere else. Go thee hence and try to figure it out.


	12. A Ride To Battle

_In which those willing face battle, each in their own way._

* * *

The majestic war-horse leapt, his legs held tight beneath his body, clearing the fallen tree with perfect ease. His gleaming coat glowed white in the murky yellow half-light; his mane and tail rippled in the wind like silk; his armor, the handiwork of Dwarves, would protect him against all attack. On his back, borne effortlessly by his strength, was his Queen: a creature of legend, a Daughter of Eve, youngest of the prophesied Four to take Cair Paravel and save all of Narnia from cold and evil. Together their minds worked as one – they had no thought but to make it to the battle in time, no objective but to save those who could be saved. Together they were legendary, valiant, unstoppable.

It was the Faun sitting pillion, thought Aelf, that was ruining things. And the dirt that nobody had had time to clean from his armor. His tail was rather thickly tangled with brambles by now, but that really couldn't be helped. If not for all the mud, he was quite sure he would gleam brightly.

"I've _told_ you," Lucy said, turning back to Tumnus (who, holding quite tightly to Lucy to prevent falling off, wobbled with some alarm), "that four feet travel faster than two."

"Please turn back around!"

"Shift yourself left, Master Tumnus!" Aelf shouted.

"I'll fall if I do!"

"No, lean the way I am!" Lucy corrected, ducking as Aelf plunged under some low-hanging tree branches.

"Augh! Do be careful, Aelf!"

All silliness aside, thought Aelf, they were still a worthy thing to see: a noble steed, a valiant queen, and a Faun who was, by all accounts, quite brave indeed. That was enough for a song in Narnia. A song and, perhaps, a feast. Even if – as Aelf dearly hoped – they wound up missing most of the battle.

-----

All necessary explaining had come in half-stories and interruptions, but this was the way of Narnians and their rulers were well accustomed to it. By the time Peter had been given blankets, dry clothes, and a fortifying drink, several things were clear: that the group returning from the ruins of the Witch's castle had been attacked on the way home, well within eyeshot of castle Cair Paravel. From whence the attackers came, nobody knew; the only agreement was that they were the sort who had fought under the Witch in the Battle of Beruna and been surprisingly absent since. "They had to come from somewhere," Edmund kept saying – but, to his chagrin, the one thing everybody agreed on was that they hadn't. There had been no word from any of the woodland folk, no warnings passed by Edmund's network of messengers.

"The thing to do, then," said Peter, twirling the Sea-King's dagger contemplatively between his hands, "is go round them up. We can capture one of them – one of the sort who can talk, anyway; not much good to get the other kind – and find out what they know."

Ordilan chuckled, low and quiet. "Your brother," he murmured to Edmund, "is fond of that tactic."

"I should think the fewer of us the better," Oreius said, "especially as there are many wounded or tired coming back from the Witch's ruins."

"We'll need to bring at least one who came back," Edmund pointed out, "to tell us where they were attacked. They'll know who – or what – to look for."

"I daresay Phillip would be offended if he did not come along, brother," said Peter with a grin.

"I'll not be leaving him behind again," Edmund said wryly. "Sitting here in safety while he and the others fought for their lives – ugh! I feel so—"

"I know," Peter said, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We will set it right." He let go, then, turning at the sound of someone else entering the room. "Ah! There's Dresthin with our armor." Indeed there was a pile of it being wheeled towards them in a barrow by Dresthin, one of the Dwarven armorers. "Thank you," Peter said, as he left the Sea-King's dagger on the table and plunged both arms into the pile.

"Sire," Ordilan said, "when we set out, you should bring that weapon with you." There was a strange note of determination in his quiet voice.

Edmund glanced at Ordilan and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Ordilan shook his head – whatever it was could wait. "I think he's right, Peter," said Edmund.

"Very well," said Peter, laying his hauberk flat on the table and smoothing the chainmail. "I'll bring it along." He picked up the heavy thing, tentatively placed it on his shoulders, worked in an arm, and— "Damn this thing! Ed – it's stuck—"

"That's because it's mine, you idiot."

"Ugh. Isn't."

"Is, or else it'd fit. Shift it off you."

"I can't!"

"I can pull it like this—"

"Augh!"

"Can't be yours then, can it?"

"Sire?" Ordilan asked. "Should I—"

"NO!" both Kings shouted, in the midst of their scuffle.

"Lift your arm."

"Like this?"

"No, the other."

"Oh—" With a wince-inducing rip, Edmund yanked the hauberk (and half the gambeson) off of his brother.

"Thank you," Peter gasped, turning to Ordilan, "but we can – ah! – we always do this ourselves." Then, to Dresthin – "Wasn't this one of mine, once? And – yes, thank you – yes, I'll need that other gambeson."

Ordilan and Oreius exchanged small smiles.

"Always did like my kit better," Edmund muttered to himself, pulling scraps of shredded cotton out from the rings and examining the hauberk critically.

"Sire," said Oreius, "with your leave, I should like to arrange a team to deal with the creatures who attacked our army."

"Be sure Axet comes along," said Peter, "as we'll need him to scout ahead for us."

"Anyone else you wish to take?"

"I leave that to you. Bring the best of those who want to come." Peter tied the last knot on his spare gambeson and turned to Ordilan. "Are you coming?"

"If you'll have me, Sire."

"I've brought extra things for sir here," Dresthin said, nodding towards Ordilan. "Some of the older kit we've found is like to fit him well enough."

"That is good. Can you ride?"

"Nay." A small chuckle. "Horses were not easily kept in caves, and I've only had two days' practice here."

"I'll bring him along on Phillip," Edmund offered.

"Very well," Peter said. "Oreius?"

"They will likely be ready before you are, Sire," the Centaur said, sketching a hasty bow and leaving the room.

"Before I am?" Peter turned back to the pile of armor.

"That's my belt, you oaf!"

-----

"... and they want me to stay behind, and Susan agreed, and I won't, Tumnus, I won't! Peter said I should keep my cordial here for anyone else who might need it, but they've already been checked over, and what if something happens to somebody out there?" Lucy yanked hard on a knot in Aelf's tail, causing the poor Horse to wince.

"You shouldn't go against their wishes," Tumnus said, stepping in to take the comb from her hands. "Besides – isn't that the last of them leaving now?"

Across the courtyard, the guards were closing the gate after a sizable party led by Edmund, Peter, and Oreius.

"It is, but I don't care! Did you see what happened to some of the ones who came in?"

"No – as you'll remember I was too busy finding _you_ after that business at the beach."

"After I gave them the cordial I had to go inside and change. I was wet! It's cold out, you know."

"Shouldn't be," Aelf snorted. "I don't like it. Something's gone wrong somewhere."

"I don't know what," Tumnus said. "But I can feel it – it's wrong, somehow."

"It is wrong," Lucy fussed, pacing away again, "and they're out in it."

"It's like when Aslan broke the winter," said Aelf, "but backwards. Don't you think?"

"I don't know. I was stone at the time," Tumnus said.

"Did that hurt?"

"Not particularly. It was cold, and then nothing at all, until Aslan woke me."

The Horse shuddered. "It sounds horrid."

"It was not the worst thing that happened," Tumnus said, his voice mild but also clearly done with the subject. He worked, for a moment or two, on the rather difficult knot in Aelf's tail. He watched Lucy, off in the distance, as she paced and wrung her hands.

"D'you think she's planning something?" the garrulous little Horse asked.

"When is she not?"

"To go after—" Aelf nosed vaguely towards the courtyard gate.

"I wouldn't doubt it."

"And are we?"

"I don't think we have much of a choice."

"Will I get to wear armor like Phillip's?"

Lucy stopped, suddenly. Her face lit up, and she charged off towards one of the courtyard pathways. Horse and Faun fell in behind her.

"For your sake, cousin," Tumnus said tiredly to Aelf, "I hope so."

-----

It was never easy, thought Peter, to go to battle, especially when he did not particularly know when he would find it. The anticipation was the thing, or so Edmund had said once; once one was properly in the thick of battle, one was kept busy trying to avoid swords and clubs and maces and had no time at all to think about how dangerous the entire endeavor was.

And yet... yet, thought Peter... as bloodied and tired as his Narnians were, and as dismal the frightening strange swamp light seemed, there was something to be said for it all. To a man – rather, to a Beast – his compatriots showed no signs of weakness nor fear. Oreius, as always, was to his left. His brother-king, and the strange man they had recovered, sat astride Phillip to his right. Behind them ranged the Narnian army, armed and armored, ready to lay down their lives to defend their home. The red banner flag, lion rampant, snapped smartly in the cold wind, and Peter felt heartened by even the implied sight of Aslan.

He turned to Edmund, whose face was cool and solemn beneath his metal helmet.

"All right there?" Peter asked gently.

"All right," Edmund replied, though his face remained grave.

-----

"This one is never used," Lucy said brightly. "It's extra." As Lucy heaved the wooden door open, the dark room yawned before them like a cave. The wood scraped against the flagstones, and Tumnus glanced about nervously, to be sure nobody had seen or heard. Aelf nudged his shoulder with a velvety nose. "I heard nobody," the little Horse reassured him.

"Come _on,_ you two," Lucy said impatiently, darting into the dark room and peering closely at things: suits of armor on padded mannequins; shelves holding endless rows of helmets and breastplates; racks of staff weapons and bows; wooden barrels filled with arrows conveniently tied in bundles. Tumnus followed Lucy closely, eyeing the various implements of war with little more than passing familiarity, while Aelf wandered off on his own, occasionally snorting at the thick dust.

Lucy led Tumnus up and down aisles, and before long (although, given the low light and the need to fiddle with buckles, it took rather longer than Lucy would like) both were outfitted in fine Narnian armor: Tumnus in the waxed leather preferred by Fauns; Lucy in chainmail and plate; each with arming caps and gambesons underneath. They moved on to bows, each testing the draw of several before selecting one. Lucy found a belt and a knife for Tumnus; for herself, she had the knife Father Christmas had given, on the little belt which held her cordial.

"I do wish I'd brought a basket," Lucy said, selecting two bundles of arrows and laying them in Tumnus' arms. "Can you find a place to put them?"

"They have horse armor!" Aelf exclaimed, swishing his tail in delight. "Can I wear some of it? I have always wanted to be a war horse."

"You're afraid of bluebottles," Lucy shouted back.

"Only when they buzz in my ears," the little Horse snorted defensively.

"Must you have armor?"

"We're going to a battle, aren't we?"

"No! We're going to hope there _isn't_ one."

"But _you_ have armor," the little Horse said pointedly.

For a handful of brief moments the storeroom fell silent, except for some scuffling.

"Tumnus, no, hand me _that_ strap."

"This one?"

"Augh. No. That one!"

"Ouch!"

"Please hold still, Aelf!"

-----

Peter heard the sound from high above – a screaming cry, once, twice, three times. This was a signal, and before he quite knew what he was doing, one hand had loosened his sword Rhindon from its scabbard, while the other went to shield his eyes as he scanned the grey sky.

Around and behind him, his Narnians did the same. Horns were sounded, so that the scouts could follow the noise back to the army. The Narnians glanced here and there in the gusting fog and the murky half-light, before---

"There!" Ordilan shouted, his rough subterranean voice still somehow alien.

Five Griffons spiraled down through the air in a loose formation, Axet at the lead. They landed, not ungracefully, before Peter.

"What news?" Edmund asked.

"A large force, Sire," Axet rasped, "a small distance north-west of us. I am sure that they saw us, but I do not know if they are aware of you. We had to dodge arrows, and a few threw spears. We are none of us injured."

"What are they?" Peter asked.

"A strange company, surely," said Axet. "I saw for myself several Ogres and at least three Hags; there were Were-Wolves as well, and I believe a contingent of Dwarves. Wraiths and Minotaurs. Perhaps an Ettin or two."

"Anything else?"

"It's difficult to see in this light," Axet replied, "and we could not come closer before they saw us. That is only what I know I saw. They are encamped in the trees, and well hidden."

"We will come to them, then," Oreius said.

"With care, sir. I would guess there are twice as many as we have here," Axet said, "at the very least. Perhaps more. There was no smoke – no fires."

"Probably eat whatever they catch raw," a Dwarf grumbled, and a chorus of shushing and muttered agreement briefly followed.

Peter glanced at Edmund, catching his brother's brief nod, before addressing the rest of his army. "We are outnumbered two to one, at least, and we do not know whom we face. They are well-hidden and I have no doubt that this strangeness in the air is of their doing. I feel that we cannot turn back, but I would have it of you before I issue any commands: what say you?"

A deafening roar followed. Swords were beaten against shields, steel spear butts hit the ground, horns blew, and the Beasts cried their agreement with their King in their varied strange voices. Peter raised his gauntleted hand, and the din fell silent.

"Protect yourselves," Peter shouted. "Mind your captains: we need to keep captives alive for questioning and they will know who best to capture. Also remember that they may have taken prisoners – by all means we must care for our own. What say you?"

Again, a roar, but not a mindless, savage thing; this was the cry of rescuers and defenders, of those who loved the land of Narnia as they loved their families, of those who felt life was worth every inch of blood spilt to protect it.

"By the Lion," Peter shouted, "we shall protect our own! Narnia is ours and I will lay down my life to keep it so! What say you?"

A third time the army cried out: all weariness gone, they were strong and ready. Their swords were loosed, their spears ready, their arrows nocked.

Peter nodded to Oreius, then, who signaled the horn-blowers. Axet and his scouts took to the air, circling over the army. Peter unsheathed his sword which, even in the dim storm-light, shone as brightly as the light in Aslan's eyes.

"Then we ride," Peter shouted, "and we fight! For Narnia!" For the fourth time the army screamed its assent. Peter nudged his Horse with his heels (but gently, for one should _never_ kick a Talking Horse), and the noble Beast reared before starting the charge. The Griffons screamed overhead to lead the way. The hunting-horns of the Centaurs sounded. The trees flickered by, singly at first, then thicker and thicker until the forest surrounded the army.

-----

"Goodness, do you hear that?"

"They're that way, I think."

"I think you're right."

"We can't be far."

"Then come _on!"_

-----

Behind and above and around them the army roared in its charge, mighty to see, thunderous loud, determined at all costs to protect what was theirs. Off in the distance, hidden between trees and fog, the answering cries of the enemy came.

Again Peter glanced at his brother, and this time the solemness was gone: Edmund was smiling.

* * *

_Awfully Embarrassedly Apologetic Note:_

I am so, so, so terribly sorry it's taken me this long to update. Fear not, you lovely readers – I will see this through to the end. Abandoning it is not an option. Good prevails, of course, and our heroes win, but _how_ they do it, and what happens when they do – well, you'll see. Thank you for being so terrifically patient with me.

There's a lot more to come, as well; things I thought would happen three or four chapters ago haven't happened yet. All to the good for you, I hope: it means there are plenty of adventures yet to be had.

On the mermaids, since some of you expressed confusion: that wasn't just a pleasant diversion for Peter. It's important, though I'm not sure if I laid the groundwork as to how. You'll see it soon enough, though. Patience, my pets. All shall be revealed.


	13. The Battle of Stormy Wood

_In which all involved find themselves eyes-deep in the sorts of trouble to which each individual is best suited._

* * *

After this all was over, thought Peter, he was going to have to talk to Oreius about training in the thick of the forest. He was literally accustomed to the fields of battle – even the training yards were cleared of any debris. It was an absolute shame that their current foes had not seen fit to gather in a large grassy plain, so that both sides could more conveniently try to hack each other to bits. 

Beneath him his mount, a handsome Talking Horse by the name of Galthis, gathered his muscles and leapt. Peter raised Rhindon in his hand, and with a shout he sunk it deep into the first enemy he found. From there he had no time for anything else. He was past thinking – past doing anything but attacking and defending, each in their turn, as Oreius had taught.

Beside him Edmund's arm raised and fell in concert with Peter's own, his brother's sword also spattered with gore. Ordilan, at Edmund's back, acquitted himself well although he had trained with rapiers and was new to the Narnian style of broadsword and shield. He and Edmund had worked out rather a convenient way of defending Phillip: Ordilan was right-handed, but Edmund had trained to be ambidextrous. Each fought to the side of their shield-arm, and between the two Phillip was as safe as a Horse could be in battle.

The assorted rabble in the woods – _but where had they come from?_ – growled and shrieked against the onslaught of Narnians. Peter, in flickering moments of being able to think between enemies, noted the presence of several types of creature that had been considered extinct in Narnia, ever since the defeat of the Witch.

In the air the five griffons led by Axet had much to do, even though their effect on the battle was limited by the thick forest canopy. Their view of things from above was invaluable to the rest of the army, and each had been assigned a captain to direct. They wheeled in the air, screaming instructions to those below, and it worked as well as it had every other time – until Axet himself was shot down. It was one of the Ettins who'd done it, with a vicious, primitive throwing spear – a sharpened stick, or given the size perhaps a sharpened sapling – clear through his side. Axet dropped like a stone, screaming all the way.

"'Ware the spears!" Axet's second-in-command shrieked, and the four remaining griffons spun away.

-----

"That way!" shouted Lucy, guiding Aelf with a hard tug of the reins. "I saw someone fall. One of the griffons."

"Oogh," the Horse grunted. "I _saw_ it, you don't have to break my neck. Who was it?"

"I can't tell in this damn light," Tumnus replied, shifting up to look over Lucy's shoulder. "Hurry! I can see him – I think – over there, Lucy, d'you see?"

"Yes," Lucy said, kicking a foot free of the stirrups. She swung a leg over Aelf's back.

Tumnus let go of his Queen, windmilling his arms to keep his balance. "What are you doing?"

"Both of you," Lucy said, clinging to Aelf's side now and balanced on one foot, "both of you, as soon as I get to the ground, you promise me you'll get out of here."

"What?"

"No!"

"You promise!" she shouted. "It's too dangerous!"

"But not for you?" Tumnus argued, gripping her arm.

"I can fight, you can't. I'll cure whoever that is and _he_ will get me back. I'll meet you with the rest of the army."

"And if they're not—" Aelf trailed off.

"They will be!" Lucy twisted her wrist under Tumnus' hand, grasping his forearm firmly and locking his eyes with hers. "You two keep safe. Please. I'll be fine." Tumnus nodded solemnly and tightened his goat knees around Aelf's side. "Now go!" Lucy shouted, letting go, and whacking Aelf on the flank with her bow for good measure.

Tumnus turned himself as far as he could, suddenly unaware of the Horse under him, and watched Lucy until the forest swallowed her.

-----

"What is that?" Edmund shouted. "There, by those trees – no, _who_ is that?"

Edmund's shock was understandable, because he had indeed seen something unusual: groups of Men, fighting bravely. Their armor was slapdash and inadequate, Edmund noticed, but they seemed to be defending themselves well.

"Your friends?" he asked Ordilan. "How did they get here?"

"I do not know, Sire, but I doubt they will _stay_ here unless we help them."

"PETER!" Edmund shouted, looking for his brother. "PETER! Reinforcements, north-northwest!" He heard his call echoed by the captains who heard it: another convenient thing he'd persuaded Oreius to get the army to do.

In answer Edmund saw Rhindon wave twice, distinctly, above the crowd. Message recieved. Well enough.

"Come on then, Phillip," Edmund said. "They're Narnians."

-----

A horse in full-bore panicked flight thinks of little else: its body is designed well for motion, and its quick mind can scan the surrounding countryside to find the best escape routes without it even being aware it does so. This is as true in our world as it is in Narnia: any experienced horseman can tell you that horses, as a rule, will fly instead of fight. Talking Horses still have this wildness inside them, and it takes many years of training before a Talking Horse can ignore that primal urge to flee at all costs.

A shame, then, that little Aelf had not had such training. Wholly unaware of the shouting Faun on his back, Aelf led them both on a wild chase through the forest, and it wasn't until the noise stopped that he realized he'd lost Tumnus somewhere along the way.

Aelf stood with his head down, his forelegs splayed to keep his balance. His breath came from him in great steaming puffs, matched only by the steam rising from his flanks. Far in the distance, he could hear the horns and shouts of battle. Closer to him he could hear water, and though he felt dreadfully thirsty moving any further was quite beyond him. His armor, fine as it was, felt quite heavy by now and beneath it his sweaty skin itched horribly.

Eventually Aelf regained his wind. He lifted his fine-boned head and sniffed, testing the scents on the strangely cold wind. The smell of water matched the direction the sound came from, and a few minutes' exploring found the small grey-speckled Horse up to his knees in a small creek. He drank, but not greedily – everybody knows that the best way to make oneself sick is follow a lot of exertion with a full belly of cold water – and after that merely stood in the creek, allowing the cool water to soothe his hooves.

From here shame overtook him: even with all his armor he was a fine mockery of a war horse. He had not only lost his Queen, he'd lost her Faun as well, all the while racing madly to save his own hide. He knew, as did all Horses, that panic was not an easy thing to overcome, but still Aelf felt he had behaved badly.

It was clear to him that the only thing to do was to go back and collect them both. He would find his Queen, they would find her Faun, and from there they would, he hoped, find the battle won and the Narnians celebrating. After that a good currying would not go amiss – it did itch terribly under the armor.

Aelf set his ears back and bravely turned towards the sound of battle. He had failed once, but he would not do it again.

It did little to soothe the Horse's conscience when, much later, Tumnus explained he hadn't even seen the tree branch until after it had knocked him from Aelf's back.

-----

"My lady," the Griffon rasped in his odd voice, "you must leave. I cannot protect you—" he shifted uncomfortably in the mud, gasping as a fresh wave of pain overtook him.

"Nonsense," Lucy said, rather a bit louder than she'd wished, but sometimes being loud is better than sounding terribly frightened. "I have my cordial here."

Axet shook his feathered head. "The spear is deep, Lady. It has killed me."

"Not yet it hasn't," she argued senselessly. "I can pull it out and have the cordial to you in a moment, just a moment."

"To pull it out would be a kindness, my Queen," said the griffon, "as you would then send me to Aslan all the quicker."

"No," Lucy said, again a trifle too loud, "because from here you and I are going _home_ and Aslan's country can wait! Tell me how to get it out." She set her chin, and glared at the Griffon's coppery eyes, and had he not been in such dire straits Axet would have tilted his head and opened his beak, smiling in the way birds do.

"Do not twist it," the griffon gasped. "Out the same angle as in."

Lucy nodded and knelt at the griffon's side, the abraded flesh now frighteningly swollen and black with blood. Lucy felt pale and faint at the sight. She lightly rested her shaking hands on Axet's side and took a deep breath. She had heard stories – the most memorable involved an accidental dart in a buttock, though her brothers each swore it had happened to the other – but Lucy had never pulled anything larger than a splinter from a living, breathing, aching body.

Lucy pulled the small knife from her belt and cut a good length of cloth from her skirt. She folded it into a pad and laid it aside, to place on the wound after the hateful spear was gone. She loosened the bottle's stopper – not completely, for fear that Axet would move and spill the precious cordial – but close enough so that it could be opened in a flash.

"Sideways," she said to herself, examining the wooden shaft. She held her hands over it and mimed the motion it would take to remove the thing. She adjusted her position and pantomimed again. She placed a trembling hand on the spear – and Axet screamed. "I'm sorry!" she shouted, releasing the thing as though it were on fire, unaware that she had begun to cry.

"Do it," Axet panted, "no matter how I may cry out. Do it quickly. Please. The worst is behind and Aslan is ahead."

"No," Lucy said thickly, sobbing in earnest. She placed her hands on the spear shaft and beneath her Axet moaned. "He isn't!" Her hands slipped on the blood-slick spear. "He wants you to live," she shouted, bracing both feet and tightening her grasp, "and so do I!" She pulled up and backwards with all her might – beneath her the tortured Axet howled with unimaginable pain – and with a terrible tearing noise the hateful thing came free.

Lucy staggered backwards with the force of her mighty heave, and as she dropped the spear she too hit the ground. She scrambled back towards Axet, catching the bottle of cordial as she went. With slippery hands Lucy fumbled the stopper out of the cordial, and one shining drop fell into Axet's open mouth. She corked the bottle quickly, and carelessly dropped it on the ground behind her, then gathered the cloth pad and pressed it into the wound.

The cloth stained darker and darker with blood, but none seeped past it, and only when she shifted her weight to add more pressure to the thing was she aware of the sudden silence. Axet had stopped screaming, and so had Lucy.

The silence held, and Axet remained still. Lucy bowed her head to her hands.

-----

Peter had heard it, had seen it all, had spoken with one of the men involved and still could not believe what he saw. The battle was quickly ending: with the lucky appearance of the Galmans the enemy had found itself with one too many vulnerable sides.

It had been some time since he'd left Galthis' back in favor of his own two feet: the larger enemies had mostly been dealt with and in close quarters Peter preferred to stand on his own.

One side of Peter's mind, detached from the strenuous efforts of his body, understood it in an abstract way. The Galmans had been there at the right time, and how did that old adage go? The enemy of my enemy, or something of the like. No time to remember it now.

Unfortunately – for Peter's ability to reason, at least – it was his body that found itself fighting back-to-back with a Galman stranger. His mind and his body had a short but intense argument about this, and once his mind won Peter accepted the man's presence but found himself acting, utterly, like the sort of clueless prat Edmund often accused him of being.

"Who are you?" Peter gasped over his shoulder.

"My name is Irlian. Who the devil are you?"

"I am Peter, King of Narnia."

"We will see," the man said, dispatching yet another foe and stepping away from Peter.

"What?" Peter yelped, startled – and only when he paused at this he realized that the battle, at least around him, seemed to be over. The assorted Narnians were checking themselves and each other, and the Galman men had withdrawn into a close group. Peter noticed, not disapprovingly, that they had not put away their weapons: he would hope his own soldiers would do the same, surrounded by an unknown and much larger army that may not be friendly.

"That lad there," the man calling himself Irlian shouted, "calls himself a king of Narnia!"

"He's just a whelp!" one of the others shouted.

"Calls himself a King?"

"I am," Peter said, "High King of this country under Aslan, who is King over us all." He turned, shifting Rhindon in his hand. "I know who you are and from where you have come. I am willing to ignore this slight against _our person_ and welcome you as friends."

The response from the Galmans was the one Peter had not expected. He had thought they might apologize, or attack; he was ready for either one. What he hadn't expected was cruel, mocking laughter.

"Our King died, boy," another Galman said, "a hundred years ago. More than. Nobody survived that battle."

The assorted Narnian army, meanwhile, Talking Beasts and Fauns and Satyrs and Centaurs, had gathered around in a loose circle. When the man finished speaking, a cacophony of disagreement and insults arose. Oreius raised a hand for silence, which was obeyed; he then looked to Peter for further instruction.

Peter, for all his skills and talents, had never been at such a loss.

Back behind the close-crowded ring of Narnians, Edmund turned to Ordilan.

"I was afraid of that," the older Man said.

"He's going to get himself killed," Edmund muttered to himself. "Come _on,_ Phillip. Got to rescue my idiot brother again."

-----

The darkness cleared, after what seemed a brief eternity. Tumnus had never before felt aware of the passing of time while he slept, or of the length of dreams – but this time, although he had not dreamed, he felt as though he'd slept as long as the trees had during the enchanted winter.

He was first aware of a strong pain, somewhere off-center and slightly behind his forehead. He touched his hand to the place and winced; his fingers came away reddened with sticky blood, though his hand seemed blurred and vague. He ground the heel of that hand into an eye, trying to clear away any grime, but his vision stayed foggy, shot through with flickering patches of light. Something shifted in the distance, with a rasp and a clunk not unlike hoof beats, but Tumnus was nearly deafened by the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears and could hardly tell one from the other.

He tried to sit up next, and that was the mistake: he had his man-body no more than halfway up before the ground tilted alarmingly and began to spin under him, so that he fell as limply as a rag-doll.

"I'm not dead," he told himself, "because being dead can't possibly hurt this much." He took a deep breath next. He could breathe and that was a great relief. The strange shuffling noises in the background continued, but since nothing bad happened Tumnus assumed he could safely ignore them. He stretched his arms and legs, flexed his fingers, and then stretched along his back. Nothing felt broken, although many places felt sore, and getting all the various parts of his person to move with coordination seemed rather beyond him.

The other problem was that the ground would not stop whirling beneath him. Tumnus, as all Narnians do, thought of the world as a large flat place. (You and I live on a world shaped like a ball, but Narnia is a different thing altogether.) It was, therefore, quite alarming to feel the entirety of the world spinning under his back. He tried to get up, or to move himself, and only succeeded in flopping over onto his side.

"I'm not dead," he repeated to himself. "That's the important part. Not dead, and not broken – ugh—" he stretched again "—mostly not broken. But not dead. World's gone spinny but I'm alive in it."

"No less dead than I," someone responded.

The shuffling noise that Tumnus had thus far ignored resolved itself into the sound of hoof beats. A shadow fell over Tumnus, obscuring what little light remained. With great effort, Tumnus turned his head, and followed a gnarled and ancient pair of cloven hooves up to a face older than the forest.

"Father," he said reverently. "Have you come to take me home?"

"You do not think you are there now?"

* * *

_Notes:_

_On the difficulties of battle:_ I can't _do_ action. I'll leave that to the incomparable Elecktrum, and hope you all can forgive me. In my defense, Jack always skipped the proper fighting bits too. For all the battles in the stories of Narnia, we never read much about actual fighting.

_On the chapter name:_ well, there's a storm, and they're in the woods. Narnians seem fairly prosaic about how they name their battles.

_On events that may seem to resemble precipices:_ I've been holding onto these bits for MONTHS. Y'all don't even know how fun it is to finally have this bit posted. This all was originally supposed to happen -- oh, a good six chapters ago. Then things kinda grew.

Coming up next we've got rather a lot of discussion. Should be fun. Stay tuned...


	14. A Phantom and a Parley

_In which nonsense is hidden by truth, and impatient King Edmund shouts his way into an alliance._

* * *

Tumnus could not doubt what his eyes saw, even as the ground whirled beneath him and those strange foggy lights danced in the distance. His eyes showed him a fantastic sight indeed: what looked like a Faun, if one were perhaps carved of ancient wood from winter trees. It was whippet-thin and tall, much taller than any ordinary Faun. Things that could have been bones or could have been brambles showed in raised lines underneath its gnarled hide. In places they showed through, where the dry skin cracked and tore like dead bark. Its eyes were milky-white and gleamed in the darkness, and its horns spiraled hugely from either side of its head. 

"I'm not your father," the thing said. "Never was, never wanted."

"I know you," Tumnus argued, his words as inevitable as the things one says in a dream. "Forest-father. I've never seen you, but I know you." He propped himself up on his elbows and hoped the ground would behave itself.

"Forest-father? I've been that. Not yours though. You're not mine, not here. You can't be, can't let yourself be. Can't let yourself see. I'm not _your_ father. I can be him, if you'd like. I can be anybody." Its body shifted, then – Tumnus was reminded briefly of Peter's description of seeing a werewolf change – the legs became furry, the body thickened, and the spindly figure standing before him became his father.

"No," Tumnus said. "Don't – don't do that. Please."

"I can be anyone I wish. Anyone who is mine. Of course he doesn't look like this now," the other said, clasping its hands behind its back and shifting its weight, the way a Human would rock back on their heels. Tumnus saw this and remembered it, a thousand different times – remembered his father standing this way when he was inordinately pleased with something.

"Please," Tumnus whispered. "Don't."

"Now he's like this," the other said, tilting its head and winking. It was a stage wink, a full-body wink, exaggerated grotesquely. The other brought its hands from behind his back, and in one of them was a skull. It looked human – mostly – except for the short stumps of horns left on the brow. It was clear they had been cut away. The thing that was not Tumnus' father tossed the skull from one hand to another, as though it routinely played ball-games with skulls and was looking for someone to throw it to. The thing wearing his father's face smiled, like a child pleased with its trick.

"Don't," was all Tumnus could gasp. His unstable vision, in a further fit of spite, had seen fit to fix itself clearly on the dancing skull. The thing drifted slowly and duplicated itself, and only when Tumnus looked away, to his own hand on the ground, did he realize it was his vision that had gone double.

"Yours anyway," the trickster said, in a gentle voice. "And you were his. Always his, never mine. Never mine and yet you call me father, so I will be him."

"Stop it," Tumnus whispered, "stop! Don't – don't be him. You can't. You're not."

"I can and I am, although you know and I know I'm imitating a shade beyond the sun. Does that make me any less myself, that I wear his face?" The thing that was not his father tossed the skull to the ground – where, upon landing, it became a small rock – and put a hand to its face to stroke the beard thereon.

"Please."

"Yes. Another man-thing. He wasn't mine either, any more than you are. Maybe I won't be him after all." Another creak and a shift: the familiar shape of Tumnus' father slimmed and lengthened and the furred skin was replaced with decomposing bark. The familiar eyes disappeared under opaque whiteness.

"Thank you," Tumnus said, and mostly meant it. He knew it was a trick, and it all had been a terribly long time ago, but somewhere it still hurt, because he had seen his father standing before him and now he was gone.

"Blind Pan, that's me," the trickster said proudly, "who can see all but sees – _sees_ – nothing. Do you see?"

"Not very well at the moment," Tumnus blurted, honestly.

"But you do see. You see? And so do I. I see a tame little animal, a child's pet, womb-born, all Man except for the legs, etiquette and protocol, playing at importance in a castle. You," and here Pan pointed one spindly finger, "forget what you are."

Somewhere during this conversation some part of Tumnus had decided that things did not have to make a shred of sense for him to go along with them anyway. Dreams were like that, and dreams never left Tumnus as uneasy as he now felt. "What am I, then?"

"You're you! And a good job of it too. For you. Except that you're here and you don't see, not at all. You can't see. Not anything, not yourself. Not me."

"I see you," Tumnus snapped, and if he had inadvertently snapped at the wrong Pan, well, his head was hurting quite a lot and he couldn't be blamed for seeing one more of everything than there really was.

"Shh, little one, shh," the trickster soothed, dropping to its knobby knees with its stone hooves folded under its body. "Shh." It slid its wickedly long fingers through Tumnus' curly hair, soothing, and even as the pain flared from the contact his vision cleared.

"What _are_ you?" Tumnus asked. His skin crawled at the contact: the trickster's flesh, if indeed it _was_ flesh, was ice cold. He desperately wanted to pull away but something deep down inside him wouldn't allow it, and the inability to flee made him uneasy.

"Now you see," the other replied softly. "Things you don't know, things you should. It isn't your fault you were born when you were. Son of woman, you, not of a tree. Womb-born. Your father never told, because she died before the snow came. You were too young, and she was too young, and the snow ate her up. They knew each other away from the fire. Talked about books and she made tea. Then she died. Better than a tree, maybe," the trickster said, tilting its head thoughtfully. "She fed you from her breasts before they were stabbed. Trees make bad mothers, unless you're green."

"You look like a tree," Tumnus said, and only then did he realize the filter between his mind and his mouth had run off to look for things like coordination and an earth that stayed flat.

"Now you see," Pan said, smiling widely. "Now you see. I'm the father of the forest and if you are a son of the forest that makes you mine."

"You said I wasn't."

"You are and you're not. Were but aren't. Wasn't but can be. Do you see? You don't know the forest and you should. You should."

"Why?"

"Because it is all the forest, all Narnia, all the world. All mine then, you think? But it isn't. It's no more mine than you are. She stole it from me. She frightened it. She hurt it and hurt me. Hurt you, but you didn't know. You found what she stole. When it is gone I will see. Right now I cannot. Hurt eyes see nothing." Pan leaned close, unblinking, and Tumnus could see the surfaces of its milk-white eyes were pitted and scarred, dull and dry: eggshells made of stone. "She did this to me and you never knew, because you were not mine. But you knew how to see."

"The books," Tumnus breathed. "It started with the books."

"You knew because you are not mine," Pan repeated. "You see. You can be mine. The child helps its father. Now you see."

"How? How do we do it?"

"See to your father. The children all see to their fathers. Give them respect. You – you who are not mine – because you are not, you can see. You can't be anything other than you, and you are not mine. But you can be."

"My mother," Tumnus said hesitantly, "is she there too?"

"How should I know?" Pan turned away, its voice cool and dismissive. "She had nothing to do with me – except for once, and then she made you of herself. That magic isn't mine. It's made of blood and blood has nothing to do with me." It shifted its weight and turned back to Tumnus. "But blood makes the children grow, so maybe it can be mine. Like you. Do you see?"

"Yes," said Tumnus. "I see. Can it be done?"

"Little man-things, little clever things. They can do it. I like them, but they were not mine to have. They are only for Aslan."

"And I'm not?" Tumnus asked, confused.

"Oh, you are. But you're mine too. He is generous with you. You should be." Pan removed its hand from Tumnus' head and his vision swam alarmingly. A sick feeling flared in his stomach and subsided. He felt dizzy again.

"Will I see you again?" he asked, faintly.

"You know how to find me."

"I tried so many times."

"The winter groans and chills the bones, and your father was too old for travel," the trickster said, turning away. It unfolded its body and rose to its full height. "It's dangerous to get lost in the snow, but you got lost indoors, and the torches made the night darker." With that, the forest-father was gone.

The world was spinning on an axis it shouldn't possess, and the dancing lights grew brighter and brighter. Tumnus closed his fingers around the small rock that his father's skull had become, and told himself, while he still could, that when he woke the rock would make him remember. He never could remember his dreams.

-----

"It's all right," Edmund said quietly, as Phillip shouldered his way into the clearing currently occupied by Peter. "It's all right. Stop – just stop talking. I can handle this."

"Ordilan!" one of the Galmans shouted. "Sold yourself so easily?" A chorus of cat-calls and insults followed, some in the same vein, some worse.

"Sire?" Ordilan asked.

"_Handle_ this?" Peter hissed.

"Shh," said Edmund to both. "Well. I, um. I've figured it all out, if they'll only listen to reason." The young King cleared his throat, cast a you-stay-quiet look to his brother on the ground, and sent a silent plea to Aslan which, simply stated, explained that he knew puberty was quite natural and normal but this would be one of the absolute worst times for his voice to crack so, Aslan, please keep it from doing so. He took a deep breath, let it out, quickly took another. He'd worked out what to say in such an eventuality, and it was quite a pretty speech. "We do not have to be enemies," was how it began, and that unfortunately was how it ended – for the mocking Galman chorus quickly drowned it out.

Peter only glared, before turning his back to Phillip and raising his sword.

Behind Edmund, Ordilan put a hand over his face.

"Will you all – just – you sound like a pack of fishwives!" Edmund exploded. "By the Lion, will you shut your gobs? Anyone would think the lot of you had forgotten the manners King Edward taught your grandsires!"

To Edmund's amazement, everyone stopped: Narnians and Galmans alike. Even the few bound prisoners ceased their struggles. Peter gaped, Oreius glared sternly, and Ordilan chuckled to himself. Edmund, wanting a more literal common ground with the Galmans, easily slid from Phillip's back to the ground, gesturing Ordilan to stay where he was. He clasped his hands behind his back, but kept hold of his sword.

"Listen, please," said Edmund, trying to restart his wrecked train of thought. "We have not yet – you should know that – oh, _bugger_ it all," he growled, and gave up on courtly speech entirely. "Look. We're not from this world, my brother and I. We came from the world of Men, just like your ancestors did. Just like Frank and Helen did. Aslan brought us here to defeat the Witch, and I'd say we did a jolly good job of it." At this point a general chorus of agreement came from the assorted Narnians. "Aslan set us on our thrones after that, like the prophecy said, and I'm king under my brother here but we're both only kings under _him,_ and he's who we answer to. We're doing what we can to set things right, but there's a lot we don't know. We could use your help. Ordilan has already offered his. Can we have yours?"

The Galmans shuffled uneasily, glancing at each other for direction or agreement. "Offered his help, has he?" one of the men asked.

"I have," Ordilan said, "because I can see the touch of Aslan on these young men."

"He didn't come for us," one of the Galmans grumbled.

"Aslan sent us for you," replied Edmund, "and had you not followed King Edward's direction half as well as you had we'd have met much earlier. Look at you! Your armor is in shambles, you've not spent a summer in the sun, you're outnumbered and outarmed and still –_still!_ – you are willing to fight us for the last King you knew. I only hope that you'll allow us to prove our worth to you. I salute you!" and he did, raising his sword.

"You'll get your chance, boy!" one of the Galmans shouted, and as he did a thunderous cheer arose: for the Galmans, for poor doomed Edward lost generations ago, for the tenacious lives spent below the ground. The Narnian army joined in with all of its forest voices, and somewhere beneath and below the noise, so faintly as to be imagined, a Lion roared as well. The strange storm air blew cold but clean, and for the first time that day the sun freed itself from the clouds.

"They'll listen now, Sire," Ordilan murmured, "but they're not yours yet."

"Insult their armor and win their hearts. Think you're so clever, don't you?" Peter said wryly, clapping his brother on the helmet with a heavy gauntleted hand.

"I do, actually," Edmund retorted, his face under the battle-dirt all sweetness and light.

* * *

Notes: 

On Pan: The forest-father in my mind quite strongly resembles Guillermo Del Toro's creature from _Pan's Labyrinth._ The Faun there, though, was not Pan – it was only called that in the English translation. If you haven't seen that, do. I'll warn you, though – it is achingly beautiful, but it is also unflinchingly violent, and it may be difficult to watch in places. Pan also owes a lot to Neil Gaiman: some concepts from his novel _American Gods_, but especially this line from his Sandman series: "This is _true_. You must know in your bones that this is true, although all logic argues against it." Also, there's a line from a Gogol Bordello song called "When The Trickster Starts A-Poking" that I desperately wanted to fit in here. I couldn't find a spot for it, so I give it to you now...

_When the trickster starts a-walking  
He sets the whole world askew  
Just when you think that it's all through  
It's just the birth of something new_

On Ed's cleverness: that's lifted directly from Doctor Who. I couldn't_ not_ use it.

On Ed's abrasiveness: Elecktrum planted that one so firmly in my head with the Dwarven smithy that I nearly consider it canon. Consider this a tribute.

On abrupt endings and dangling threads: this chapter is sort of... half a chapter. I thought it better to upload once I hit a stopping point rather than making you wondrous patient people wait until Christmas. Besides – I've been sitting on these bits for AGES. I hope you enjoy them.


	15. End of Battle, End of Day

_In which everyone makes their way home for healing._

* * *

All was silent, but for an intermittent roar in the distance – Lucy did not know or care what it was, except to note that it was the battle, and that it was a fair distance away from her. Her world had narrowed down to one thing: the body of Axet, which remained still.

"Lady," a soft, strained voice whispered, long after Lucy had given up hope. "Do not cry. Can you not hear the sound? They have won their battle, Lady, just as you have won yours."

"You big silly," Lucy howled, burying her grubby tear-streaked face in Axet's neck, "that's why I'm crying. We're all right. We're all of us _all right._"

-----

The Centaur Ameia, head of the informally-titled 'house guard' at Cair Paravel, delicately stepped over pallets and makeshift beds on the floor. Queen Susan had ordered all injured into the throne room, as it was without doubt the largest room in the castle; there everyone's injuries could be more easily tended, and the patients kept under observation, although after administering Lucy's cordial those critically hurt were well past any danger. Ameia, with a Falcon on her leather-gauntleted wrist, searched carefully for her Queen, and eventually found her at the side of a Panther physician, serving as a much-needed pair of hands. She watched as the Panther taught Susan how to carefully bind a long roll of gauze around a Satyr's splinted arm, and waited for the young woman to wash her hands before addressing her.

"Majesty," Ameia said, with a quick bow of her head (the Falcon echoed this movement), "I bring a messenger from your brothers. The battle is over, and was won well. We are told to expect few dead, some injured, three prisoners, and three-and-twenty allies. They will need rooming; close together, I would expect."

"Allies?"

"The message said no more. Perhaps your brothers have found the rest of the Galmans."

"Humans," Susan repeated, smiling to herself. "I haven't seen any other than my family in so long – I wonder, will they look as strange to me as I do to you?"

"Lady," Ameia said with a gentle smile, "we all are what Aslan made us. There is nothing strange about it. Or—" The smile broadened. "Are you shy of strangers?"

Susan shook her head, trying to dispel the sudden daze and the redness on her cheeks. _A hit,_ Peter's voice repeated mirthfully in her head, _a most direct hit._ "It has been much too long since I've met a stranger."

"Nonsense," Ameia said. "You meet new people all the time."

"But they're _Narnian._ We're none of us strange to the other, as you said."

"My Queen," the Panther said, nodding respectfully to Susan. "Milady," with another nod to Ameia. "If you are finished here—" Distractedly, the Panther glanced at those still in need of some mending.

"Not at all," said Susan. "Ameia? Four hands are better than two."

"Of course," the Centaur said.

"And if you would be so kind, cousin," said Susan to the Falcon, "would you repeat this message to Valios and have him prepare as many rooms as he thinks we shall need?"

"At once, lady," the Falcon hissed in its rasping bird-voice. It spread its wings, and with a helpful swing of Ameia's arm, took to the air.

"Now," the Panther said, turning to a young Boar, "what ails you, child?"

"Muh-my tail." The Boar glanced with some alarm at the Queen and the captain of the house guard, who settled to either side of him. "And – and my leg, there, it pains. But not much. Majesty."

"Would you think, little Cousin," Susan said with a smile at the young Boar who, after having won this battle, likely faced an unwinnable one with his mother, "that there is anything I would not do to ease your pain?" She smoothed her hand over the Boar's head and he relaxed.

"Do not worry," the Panther said with a cat-smile. "I could put you in no better hands."

-----

"Oh, you are the most impossible – wake _up_ then!" A stomp, and a horsey snort, filled the darkening silence.

Aelf nudged Tumnus again with his nose. The little Faun stubbornly remained still, though his chest rose and fell with easy breath and his color seemed good.

"It's not as though I have _hands,_ you know," Aelf continued. "I can't very well pick you up and put you on my back like Oreius could." He thought for a moment. "Couldn't pick you up with my teeth either. You're too heavy. You can't say I didn't try."

Tumnus' leather breastplate had been enlarged, rather suddenly, about the neck and bore several large tooth marks.

"And if you were awake, you know, you could take my armor off. It itches horribly all across the back. And the sides. I can't roll with it on – I daren't try, I might ruin it, and Lucy did say I looked so dashing. You could climb onto my back and we'd go off to find the rest of the army. I can't leave you here. I don't know how I found you the first time. I think the sun's already down. I don't know if I would find you again in the dark."

With a sigh the little Horse settled to the ground next to Tumnus, and after some indelicate scoots and shoves the Faun's body was pressed against his own warm side.

"She'd never forgive me," Aelf said, snuffling gently around the back of Tumnus' head, "if I let you catch a chill."

-----

"Bind them tightly," Peter said, staring at the three captives: two Dwarves and a Wer-Wolf. "Keep them surrounded at all times – yes, weapons_ out_ – and if they try to hurt you be sure they do not succeed."

The younger of the two Dwarves spat at Peter's feet. "Pah!" he said. "You'll not be playin' king for long there, boy."

Peter turned his head, studied the sky for a second, and wondered whether there was any king so routinely abused. Enemies, allies, his own loyal and clever subjects – perhaps this was Aslan's way of keeping Peter humble.

"I'm talking to you!" the Dwarf shouted. "We were called! We know when we're needed."

"From where?" Peter asked, whipping around with sudden interest.

The Dwarf chuckled. "From hell, you'd say – and seeing this nice little kingdom of yours ye may be right. Don't worry, laddie. She'll kill you quick if you behave. Don't want her making an example of you. Watch your step, she might even let you live after she owns you."

"After who owns me?" Peter asked.

"Queen of Air and Darkness. She calls the snow, makes it winter. Makes it good for us that's underground."

Peter paled. Surely that was impossible. He'd seen her die.

"How – how did she call you?"

"That'd be telling," the Dwarf smirked. "Best we'd get moving to your nice _castle,_" he spat. "You'll be wanting to enjoy it while you can." He turned away.

Peter tried to get the Dwarf to speak again, but he stubbornly refused.

-----

"Be more than my life's worth to fly you, Lady," Axet grumbled. "Though we would get back faster. I'm all turned about in these trees – I know the tops of them, not the bottom."

"We'll get back quickly enough," Lucy said. She was reminded, walking beside the tawny Griffon, of a time she'd followed Another through nighttime woods. But this time was happier – this time was different – this time the battle was behind them and already won.

-----

"Shh, my child, shh. It hasn't been as bad as all of that." The old voice was so gentle and wise that the Rabbit wanted to believe it, but she couldn't after what she'd seen.

"It was! I tell you, it was! I saw them coming in – all the blood – so many were hurt!" The little Rabbit fairly quivered in fear – and as you know, a frightened Rabbit is a horrible thing to see. "Some of them died!"

"Here, child. Come here. Death isn't the end of life, you know."

"It – it isn't?" She let herself be scooped up.

"Not at all. Now, come here – careful now, don't get yourself tangled – ah. You know who Aslan is, yes?"

"He's king over the High King, yeah?" The little Rabbit let herself relax, securely cradled in a large pair of hands, warmed against a scratchy waterfall of beard.

"Yes he is. He died once, you know."

"He did? But I hear talk about him like he's still alive out there."

"He is alive. And that's the magic of death."

"But them's was out there dead, they didn't come back to life."

"Not here, no. Aslan is king of more than Narnia, little one. Aslan's country is to the east, past the end of the world where the sun rises."

"But he comes back here, sometimes, doesn't he?"

"He does," and the gentle voice grew solemn. "Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"It's a wonderful place. He could stay there, but he doesn't. And do you know why?"

"Why?"

"He is the only one who knows how to get there. He'd be terribly lonely without all of us."

Cloudstrike smoothed the little Rabbit's fur gently. He combed his gnarled fingers between its ears, laying them flat against its back. He looked up and with some surprise, saw a group of Narnians – some of them wounded soldiers, some of them children – had gathered around him, listening intently.

"What's it like there?" one asked.

Cloudstrike smiled, and told them the stories he'd been taught.

-----

The dead had been wrapped in shrouds and placed, respectfully, in barrows. Light-bearers had been selected and their torches lit. Fatalities were few, and for this everyone felt thankful. The wounded, who were more numerous, were to be brought back to Cair Paravel with as much haste as their conditions permitted. Edmund and Peter had both offered to walk, insisting that those wounded who could ride would be carried by their mounts. Both Kings, feeling the beginnings of an exhaustion they'd been trained to ignore until they were safely within walls, were more than content to leave the organization of everything to their trusted captains and lieutenants.

Peter was deep in conversation with Oreius. Edmund found himself next to Irlian, with Ordilan, as always, one step behind and one to the right. Irlian was brimming with questions about Narnia: he was one of those, thought Edmund, who had to know how everything worked. He'd had a cousin like that once, Back There, but this man was rather less of a pest.

"How d'you do it then?" Irlian asked Edmund. "If there's only four of you as is human here?"

Edmund chuckled. "My people are well able to take care of themselves. I think they do more for us than we do for them."

"But if you killed that witch – they couldn't do that, could they?"

"No. They tried, many times, over the years. There was – I don't understand it half as well as I feel I ought, but there was some kind of magic. A prophecy. Peter knows more about it than I do."

"Ah, that," Irlian nodded. "We've got stories of the same."

"Do you? We would like to hear them. Ordilan told us some things, but – we've been rather busy here. Everything's come up at once. Usually Narnia is much more peaceful."

"I can see that, lad," Irlian said. "It's all to do with Edward – most of our stories are, come to that. He was the one that heard it first. Didn't deal well, as I recall. But I'm no storyteller, neither."

They plodded along for a time in silence, as alike as any men could be: bone-weary, splattered with mud and blood, each wanting nothing more than a hot meal and a wash-up. Nevermind the age, nevermind the fact that they had not met before this day, nevermind the fact that they only spoke to each other because of a tentative truce that, Edmund felt, could break with one wrong word: they were Narnians, they were human, and he felt as much kinship with this stranger as he did with any of the forest-folk.

"So, lad," said Irlian, "d'you fence?"

"Do I ever!"

"But not the way we do," Irlian said, studying Edmund's face. "You'd like to learn, wouldn't you?" He turned and clapped Ordilan on the shoulder. "Think he'd take to a bit more lessoning from his elders?"

"About that, sir—" Ordilan started.

"Actually," Edmund said, pouncing on the opportunity, "there are many things we'd like to learn from you. Your woodcraft is amazing."

"Aye, lad," Irlian said. "Has to be to hide from a dragon."

-----

"There they are!" Lucy said. "PETER! Look who I found!"

Peter whirled, and turned, and was so surprised his body kept moving and he fell, hard, into the armored side of Oreius.

"I'll thank you for not doing that when you are armed and I am not," the General said, steadying the young King with a big hand.

"Sorry, Oreius," and that was all Peter could say before his sister caught him in a bear-hug.

"Lucy! What are you doing here! How did you find Axet? We thought he was dead!"

"We came out – Aelf and Tumnus and me – have you seen them? Of course you can't have, they went back to Cair Paravel. I saw Axet and took the spear out and healed him, he thought it was time for him to die but it wasn't!"

"She'll not take no for an answer, Sire," the griffon smiled.

"I have my cordial," Lucy said brightly. "Does anyone else need it?"

"Lucy, of all the—" Peter's voice betrayed him: he was skidding well past exhaustion and into an angry sort of frightened.

"You've had two fights today," she reminded him gently, slipping her hand into his.

"Best not make it a third," Peter chuckled. "I'm much too tired to argue with you." He kissed her on the forehead. "The medics are all over there. I expect they'll be thrilled to have you along."

"Thank you," she said, and in a rustle of skirts was gone.

-----

The darkness was not a problem for Aelf's senses – like any Horse, he could hear and smell as well as he could see – but his mind was troubled by the thought of nighttime in a strange place.

"Saw my father," Tumnus repeated, insistently. "Saw him. He was here. Never did see him before in my life, I tried, believe me I tried – do you believe me?"

"Um," Aelf replied. "Yes."

This conversation had been going on for some time, as Tumnus drifted back toward consciousness. Aelf thought it was rather like watching someone wake from a nightmare, but much more slowly. He snorted quietly to himself. Horses had their own stories about what a nightmare was – and, upon reflection, he could see how everyone else had mistaken the word.

"He was _here._ And I – Aelf. Aelf, is that you?"

"Yes! Yes it is! It is me, and you are you, and we are here! But I don't know where we are. You know who you are, don't you?"

"You've asked me that five times now. I'm still Tumnus."

"Good!" the little Horse said brightly. "Why don't we go find everyone else? I think the battle is over." Had to do it quickly, thought Aelf. Tumnus could see invisible things from Aelf's back just as easily as he could from the ground, and – with the nervousness of any animal separated from its herd – Aelf was more than ready to get back to Cair Paravel.

"How are we going to do that?" Tumnus asked.

"Easily," Aelf said. "If we can get you on my back I'll carry you."

"Can't move," Tumnus said. "World's still spinny. You don't feel it?"

"Not a bit. It's flat to me. If you can roll yourself onto me there are straps and things in my armor. You can tie yourself down."

"I'll try it," Tumnus said. "I'll try it if you will just—" His eyes whirled and his head dropped back down.

"You really must stop doing that," Aelf fussed. "Tumnus? Tumnus!"

"Hrm? I saw my father, before. I wonder if he's still here."

"Really now, Master Tumnus!" the little Horse erupted in a braying sort of shout. "You are going to get yourself on my back and we are going to go _home!_"

"Home's here," Tumnus said. "S'where family is. Father's family."

Aelf considered for a second. There was one more thing he could try, loath as he was to do it.

"Said it was home, he did, and I know this – I know it – I never did before but now I understand beca-ah-ah-AIEEE! AELF!"

"Master Tumnus."

"You – you – why – did you—"

"I will bite you again if you do not get on my back."

"Lucy's a bad influence," the Faun said, woozy, as he hoisted himself onto the little Horse.

"Tie yourself down once you are seated," Aelf said. "I still have to get up."

"Which way is up?"

-----

"Peter?" Lucy's voice came softly. She had helped the medics while the army was on the move, and after that had nearly cemented herself to her brother's side.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry I came. I thought it – oh, I don't know what I thought! I thought I could help." She was quiet for a moment. "How can you do this as much as you do?"

"Promise you won't tell anybody," said Peter, "but I am frightened the moment we set out. Every time."

"Frightened?"

"Lu, every time I ride into battle I'm – terrified. Because I don't know who will still be there when we're done. I don't know who we'll lose. I do everything I can to keep them all safe. That's why we train so much. But once you're in the thick of it – you weren't, were you?"

"No."

"By the Lion, that's good. I don't want you to be, yet. If you're determined to come along and do what you can I'm going to have Oreius train you."

Lucy gulped.

"You've ridden him! I thought you'd made friends by now."

"When it's just us he's nice. But he's still so—"

Peter laughed, gently, and laid an arm across Lucy's shoulders. "I know. It was well over a year before I wasn't intimidated by him myself. But look – when you're in the middle of it you can't even allow yourself to think. You just have to act. Have to let your body do what it's been trained to do. If you think you stop moving, and if you stop moving someone else can hurt you." He chuckled. "That's the easy part. It's what comes after."

"Finding out who didn't make it," Lucy finished.

"Yes. And I can't – I can't _not_ feel like every single one we lose is – is like losing you, or Susan, or Edmund. I love them all, you know. Even the ones I've never met."

"Is that why you always spend time by yourself when you get home from a campaign? You don't have to be sad alone."

A sigh. "I do. Because it's me telling them to go, and they do it. And I can't – look. Aslan told me a lot about being a king, but there's one thing I learned myself. It's that you have to feel that sadness. The only other way is to stop caring about anything, and what sort of monster would I be then?"

"Like one of those Tarkaans."

"Tisrocs."

"Those."

"I can't see how that sort of man would make a good King. You have to love them all, you know? We have to love Narnia more than we do our own selves."

"They do too," Lucy said. "That's why they go when you tell them."

-----

Aelf had never been so happy to find the long column of Narnia's army, marching as it was back toward Cair Paravel. The castle shone brightly in the distance, a beacon against the perfect blackness of the Eastern sky. He had been so tired and relieved that he had not even bothered to find anyone he knew; he had only joined the tail-end of the army and allowed his horse-sense to follow such a large herd back to safety. Tumnus had managed to tie himself to the armor, and fitfully dozed in and out of consciousness against Aelf's slender neck.

"You'll want to move up along," a rough but kind voice said, and Aelf turned to see an unfamiliar Centaur studying Tumnus.

"Why is that?" Aelf asked.

"He's bad off," the Centaur said, studying Tumnus. "Medics are ahead."

"Where?"

"Don't worry, cousin, I'll take you up to them."

-----

"No, lady, I have not seen her." Ameia did not like to admit she'd forgotten things, and forgetting an entire Queen was quite a dereliction of duty indeed. "I am sorry."

"This_would_ be the time – can we spare anyone to search the castle?"

"Aye, right away. And, lady—"

"I know what you are thinking," Susan said wryly. "Spare us both, my friend. This entire castle has been at sixes and sevens since noon today and by now – what time is it?"

"Past midnight, Lady."

"And by now we're still no closer to having things set right." She yawned then, surprising herself, and covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Lady. Rest yourself a while." At Susan's mutinous look, Ameia held up a hand. "I know you as well. Do not worry until you have reasons to. See, there – Cloudstrike would welcome your company, I'm sure."

"We will find her, won't we?"

"Likely she's in the thick of things and we just haven't seen her."

"My sister," Susan said tartly, "is rather hard to miss."

"I know, Lady. But you're no good to us worn out. Go on, rest yourself a time. I'll have some food brought for you." Ameia took Susan's hand and towed the bone-weary girl to her feet, then brought her to the edge of the small crowd which had gathered around Cloudstrike.

"Will you watch our Queen for a time, Grandsire?" Ameia asked.

"Of course," Cloudstrike said. He held a hand out for Susan, who took it, gratefully. "Come here – sit yourself down, child. Budge up, you young ones, that's your queen there and she's asleep on her feet."

I am not, Susan thought to herself, but after such a day as this – after the worry and the fright, after the long day of binding wounds, after the blood on her dress and the dead in winding sheets outside – it was so very nice to leave her care in the hands of others. She allowed herself to be settled at Cloudstrike's side, and when the forest-children gathered near she lifted a young Badger to her lap. They crowded close, wanting to be near their Queen; Susan held her arms out and invited them to her. Their warmth comforted her, and the loving trust in their eyes strengthened her.

"I was telling them the story of Swanwhite," Cloudstrike said to Susan. "Have you heard that one before?"

"I have not, Grandsire."

"Would you like to?"

"Very much," she said.

Cloudstrike cleared his throat and addressed his audience. "Swanwhite was known for her beauty – I daresay she looked rather like this Queen we have here." He reached over and took one of Susan's smooth young hands in his own. "It was said that if she looked at herself in a pool the reflection stayed for a year and a day."

* * *

_Notes:_

_On titles:_ "The Queen of Air and Darkness" is respectfully swiped from T. H. White, whose 'Once and Future King' is a yarn I'm sure Lewis enjoyed. I'm sure you all would enjoy it too: if you haven't read it yet I highly recommend. There probably will be loads more references to and concepts stolen from that book. Possibly the best part of it all is the way Wart and Kay talk to each other when they're children – they speak the same way the Pevensies do!

_On stats:_ Wow. There's a lot of you all of a sudden. (Who let the cat out of the bag?) Hi guys! Hope you're having as much fun with this as I am!

_On almost-anniversaries and new years:_ A year later and I'm still working on this? Really not what I was expecting. I remember I pounded the first three or four chapters out, _one per day,_ while I was laid up with a nasty headcold. Then things got busy, which I think was the theme of my 2007: Life Kept Getting Busier. Not in bad ways though. Hope y'all had fun over the holidays and that this year is worlds better than the last one.

_On Peter's speech about motion:_ That idea is sort of swiped from my brother, who said in a discussion of hockey that "once they start worrying they start getting beat, because the way they move they can't worry." By the way, Elecktrum, kindly remove the hex you have placed on my team. Last in the division! It's the 1990s all over again!

_On any unusual linguistic tics:_ I've been watching a lot of Firefly the past few days. I don't _think_ I threw any gorrams in there, but if I did... uh.. that's why. I don't do that beta-reading thing, all the mistakes are me.


	16. Rest and Aid

_In which a very long Narnian day draws to a close, and everyone involved finds rest and succor._

* * *

The wind blowing in over the eastern sea held more cold in it than the season should have allowed, and the three young Humans who'd been involved in the day's battle shivered bitterly as they watched the trailing end of their army disperse on the castle's grounds. 

Peter, whose soul was nine parts chivalry and one part stupidity – so spoke his brother, whenever his opinion was asked – had done this the first time he had led the Narnians home victorious. Every time since then, whether in victory or defeat (though, blessedly, defeats were few and far between) those able-bodied leaders waited until the last of their countrymen were tended to before seeking their own beds. It was a slow process, this: armor was turned in, all injured were brought indoors and tended to, captains accounted for all their sergeants, and sergeants ensured that none of the footsoldiers had been left behind.

Peter had gratefully accepted the thick cloaks brought to them, but otherwise refused any attention, watching as the staging yard cleared slowly and all involved in the battle were tended to. As tired as he was – the King's head was bowed in exhaustion – he still stood ramrod-straight, one hand on Lucy's slim shoulder.

Next to this Edmund could do no less, though he felt the cold more than his brother and privately thought that such a gesture would be just as significant while seated. Occasionally he turned to the eastern sky behind him and watched the clouds slowly lighten.

Lucy, for her part, was too cold to do anything else; she'd forgotten everything save the comforting presence of her brothers, and would not be parted from them. The battle had shaken her much more than she wanted to admit, and although she'd managed a bit of a nap on Galthis' back while returning to Cair Paravel, the sleep had not been in the least bit restful.

The staging yard had emptied itself slowly, and while Narnians still scuttled about in ones and twos, the motion had come to resemble the castle's daily activity more than the large and complex re-absorption of an army. Peter felt, rather than heard, a heavy grinding sound. He waited a moment longer and then, yes, three sharp blasts on a horn: the castle gates had closed. Everyone was in. Praise the Lion, thought he, and point me to my bed. Or something comparably flat where he wouldn't be stepped on. With some effort he focused on things closer to him, and tuned into a discussion well underway.

"They'll open the gates again so soon, though," Lucy pointed out. "You see, false dawn? We've been the whole night getting back. The sun will be up soon."

"It's the tradition of the thing," Edmund explained. "All-in. That means everyone got home all right."

"Mostly everyone," Lucy said softly.

"So everyone who hasn't found each other yet," Edmund continued, ignoring that last bit, "knows they haven't lost anyone out there."

"But some people have," Lucy argued.

"And they know. When they don't make it, we send messengers to their families immediately. We're lucky, Lu, damned lucky. I don't know why, but we never lose many. And the sort of things he gets us into—" Edmund cut his eyes at their stock-still brother "—you'd expect a lot worse."

"All right, then," Peter said. "Both of you, in. I'm to my bed myself, and anything important tomorrow can wait until midday, if not later."

"You?" Edmund asked. "Sleeping in?"

"I'd make a decree if that wasn't such a lengthy process," Peter said tiredly. "Just tell someone on your way up, will you? I'll do the same."

"As you command, brother mine." Edmund took Lucy's hand in his own and led her into the castle. Peter, of course, would wait until they'd crossed the threshold before going in himself.

-----

Edmund brought Lucy to her rooms and fixed her a cup of cocoa before retiring to his own. Far from being tired, though, Lucy felt refreshed by the drink and the warm castle air. The nap on Galthis' back had helped more than she realized, now that she was indoors and away from the cold, and besides, she still had things to do before bed.

Her first task, of course, was to see to the sibling she'd been away from all day. Most likely Lucy would receive a well-deserved tongue-lashing, and then a tearful hug, and then be hustled off for a bath. Susan, thought Lucy, would mother the entire world if it would allow her. Lucy found herself looking forward to it all, especially the warm bath at the end. She was not yet old enough – or perhaps she was too Narnian – to feel awkward about being unclothed in another's presence.

She left her room and was not more than halfway down the hall when she was stopped by the sudden presence of a large hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Ameia, looking remarkably exhausted for a Centaur, and likely as filthy as Lucy felt she was herself.

Ameia's eyes locked with Lucy's for a second, and then the leader of the house guard lifted her Queen up and pulled her into an embrace that was both rib-cracking and surprisingly maternal. Lucy worked an arm up around Ameia's neck and returned the hug as best she could.

"Oh, child," Ameia whispered – and this was an endearment Lucy had heard only once before, when she'd had a nasty fall. "You had us so worried," Ameia whispered.

"I had to go, you know I had to," Lucy said. "My cordial. I helped. Axet's alive because of me."

"You saved him?" Ameia asked, setting her Queen gently back on the ground.

"I did. And we found the rest of the battle together. I helped a lot of people today," she said brightly. "Not.. not all of them. It wasn't enough."

"Oh, little one," Ameia said, soothingly. "If you can save one that is enough. Majesty."

"I'd rather the first, Ameia. I know I'm still little, even though I'm a queen." Lucy smiled shyly. "I think people forget, sometimes. They're not used to how Humans grow."

"I will keep it between us, then," Ameia said. "Have you yet seen your sister?"

"No. I was looking for her."

"I'll take you to her." Ameia took Lucy's small hand in her own and led her in a different direction.

"She isn't in her rooms?"

"No. We didn't want to disturb her."

"Disturb her?" Lucy asked. "Is she all right?"

"Tch. She's fine. See for yourself." They turned a corner and there, in the middle of a small room filled with wounded soldiers and little children, was Susan. Her head rested on a Satyr's bandaged chest, and smaller Creatures had tucked themselves into the folds of her skirts. The room was quiet, but not silent: the combined breath of so many asleep reminded Lucy of the ocean.

"She wouldn't sleep," Ameia said proudly. "Not until we forced her. You can imagine how tired she was by then to allow us."

Lucy giggled.

"She helped the physicians until she could barely walk. It was a thing to see, how she wouldn't stop until everyone had had their aid."

A small black mongrel with big brown eyes, his body tucked in the warm crook of Susan's bent legs, lifted his head. "Shh," said he, "she's still asleep."

"Will you tell her I'm here when she wakes up?" Lucy asked.

"Of course. Let her sleep." He cast a glance at his Queen – this was the sort of dog that looked perpetually worried – before re-settling his head on her knee, though his eyes remained open, watching for anything else that would wake her.

Lucy stayed for a time, letting the silence and comfort of the room soothe her. Everyone in there was all right, so the world had to be, didn't it? Then Lucy crept quietly away. One person seen before bed, two to go.

"Ameia?" she said, once they had left the room. "Where are Tumnus and Aelf?"

The smile melted from the Centaur's face.

-----

Peter toweled his fair hair and then let the wet thing fall to the floor. He had bathed, he had eaten; he had a warm bed waiting for him. The sky was brightening and every fiber of Peter's body ached for sleep.

It could wait. He was lucky, and he knew it.

He crossed his room quietly, in stocking feet, and unlocked a cabinet at the bottom of an intricately worked wooden bookcase. At the bottom he withdrew an enormous book, bound in black leather. Other than the unusual covering (black dye being rare and rather expensive) it was featureless, save for a black scrap of ribbon serving as a bookmark one-quarter of the way in.

He gently set the heavy thing on his desk, and stood facing it, gripping the back of his chair. The weight of sadness on the young King, then, was easily twice what any other could feel at his age. Three times, perhaps. Peter did not know or care for its size, save that it was there – and the even more horrible knowledge that there could be no other way.

It was some time before Peter's breathing returned to normal. He seated himself, then, and opened the book. He dipped his quill in ink, closed his eyes for a second, and began to write. The date first, at the top right-hand corner of the page, as though he were still a schoolboy another lifetime ago.

_Krixa. Griffon. Scout under Axet. Age twelve and one-half years. Survived by her mate Albrag and their two children..._

The High King thus kept vigil in his own way. The only indulgence he allowed himself was not to blot any errant tears from the pages, as though he needed proof that he grieved.

-----

Ameia led Lucy through the honeycomb of hallways and rooms sheltering the injured who had been filtered through the makeshift throne-room hospital. Cair Paravel was large, and as Edmund said they had been lucky: all of the wounded had a room to themselves, though sometimes they grew crowded with friends and family.

It was a bit of both, thought Lucy, when she spotted the familiar shape of a Horse who was now mostly grey and brown, with very little white remaining.

"He's been quiet since Octian saw to him," Aelf said, after giving Lucy a horse's hug. "She said his head's been hurt but he should be fine in a day or two and all he needs is rest. She gave him something to help him sleep."

"What happened?"

What followed was a convoluted story. Lucy listened intently while she set up a bed for herself, and while she got out of the most stained and least sleepable parts of her clothing. She worked out the gist of it, tired as she was, and assured Aelf that he had done very well indeed to go _back_ when most Horses who had not had war training would not. "I'm sure Tumnus would say the same when he wakes up," she said with a yawn. "Floor or feet?"

"If he's not going on about his father," Aelf said. "I'll sleep on the floor with you. And they're _hooves._"

"His father?"

"He says he saw him, out in the woods when I wasn't there."

"But his father is dead," Lucy murmured, snuggling against Aelf, as they'd done during the trip earlier.

"I know," the little Horse said. "I don't understand it myself."

"He'll tell us when he wakes up," Lucy said. Aelf thought she'd drifted off, but then: "You smell bad."

"You smell worse," Aelf assured her. "So we're both all right."

"S'good," Lucy said, and she slept.

-----

"You're telling me they didn't even threaten you?"

"They didn't need to. As soon as I saw where I was and who _they_ are I knew I was wrong. Young as they are – I do not know how to explain, Irlian. Either you see it or you don't."

"Oh, aye. You'd have to be blind to miss it. And even then I doubt you would. Blind and deaf, maybe. I've seen more unbelievable things since we landed on these shores than I have for all my life before it." The man grunted, uncomfortably, and that was strange: the Galmans had been put up in some of the very best bedrooms, all in the same wing so they'd feel safely close to each other, and though there was plenty of space they'd insisted on bunking two to a room.

Ordilan refilled an earthenware cup with wine. "To the best damn scouting trip I've ever taken."

"Or been forced into, from my end. Did you really go after that older girl there with your knife?"

"Shut it."

"You know it'll be fun, Irlian," the older man mocked. "Get off these damned shores. We might even find some people. And if not maybe we can move back. Maybe she's gone."

"I said shut it."

"Eh?"

"Sir."

Irlian chuckled to himself. "And here the poor devils are thinking they've won. She can't be full gone. Not if the rest of the world is. Have you told them anything about that?"

"Haven't had time to," Ordilan sighed. "Maybe I'll get the chance tomorrow. Or would you rather?"

"They're your friends, boy. You break the bad news. I think there's no killing of messengers permitted here."

"There is one thing – the oldest boy, Peter."

"The one calls himself the High King."

"He's battled Oceanus. And won."

Irlian stilled. "When?"

"Today. Or—" Ordilan looked out the window and saw that the sky was finally brightening. "Yesterday, I suppose. Before we rode out. He wouldn't say where he'd been, just that he'd met mermaids and came back with a knife. I saw it. Kraken's tooth."

"You're sure of this?"

"There's no other thing it could have been."

"So he _is_ a king."

"Aslan accepted him and that'll do for land," Ordilan agreed. "Oceanus may not be Aslan, but he does rule the sea in his stead."

"And we're part of the sea," Irlian finished. He reached across the table and took the wineskin. Refilled his cup.

Ordilan shifted. Something else he needed to say: "Sir."

"Now what?"

"I haven't told them about home yet, either."

"Whyever for?"

"You've seen the way they live here. They've everything. And we—"

"We what, Ordilan? We've gone without."

"Yes. We make do. And have done. For lifetimes. How d'you think they'd take it back home then, being handed everything by a king still breaking his voice in?"

"Idiot," Irlian said fondly. "It isn't pride kept us down in the dark since before your grandsire got an urge to take a woman to bed. We did what we had to. What we were told."

"Always have," Ordilan repeated. "That's the problem. That's who we are now. We're the last of Edward's people holding on any way we can. But this – these people here – they change that."

"Ach. I see. We'll come home and tell them there's a new King, and then what are we? I don't fully believe it myself."

"You think they will?"

"That's as it will be. Some might not want help from the ones here. Good lot though they are."

"I think some would see it the way I do," said Ordilan. "I hope they do."

"What's that?" Irlian asked.

"We've finally come home."

"Galma's your home, idiot. You know that."

"What has Galma been," Ordilan asked, "without Narnia? I don't say I, myself, have come home. I say we all have. _Galma_ has."

The two men sat in silence for a long while. Finally, with a creak of old bones, Irlian raised his cup. "To King Peter. Long-bloody-awaited heir of Edward. May he give those devils their due."

Ordilan drank the toast silently, his thoughts of young dead Kings.

* * *

Notes for Chapter Sixteen: 

On incredibly long days: You know, it's been all one day since chapter nine. And most of it is people sitting around talking. That figures. This chapter is shorter than usual, but they're all very tired, so let's let them sleep.

On Peter's obituary journal: He doesn't want to lean on anyone, because this sort of thing is so big and so awful. But he can't entirely keep it in, either. Certain world leaders could learn from him, I think.

On Galmans: I love writing these two. They owe more than a few dialect quirks to Firefly.

On dogs and love: The small black dog was mine. He helped me grow up, and I watched him grow old, and for fifteen years we slept with his head on my knee. Last week it was time to do him the final kindness, and now his arthritis can't hurt him anymore. I've written a lot of animals I've known into Narnia, because I like to think that's where they go. If you've had a dog like that – or a cat, or a horse, or any animal really – you know what I mean when I say they become part of you. And that even when you have to let them go, that doesn't mean they_ stop_ being part of you.


	17. The Importance of Mornings

_In which Susan tries her hand at diplomacy, Lucy is presented with a mystery, and their brothers Edmund and Peter are presented with unexpected gifts, all well before midday._

* * *

Narnians, for the most part, do not keep specific track of time. They have no need to split a day the way we do. Most of them live out of doors and look only to the sky for guidance. Sunrise, midday, and sundown are as well known to them as they are to us. Full-morning, when the sun has broken free of the horizon entirely, is as distinct a time to them as "on dark" – a shortening of every Narnian mother's favorite phrase: "It's coming on dark and dinner is ready" – which is when the sun begins to touch the western horizon. On-dark lasts until the time when the sun truly sets. When the sun is fully down, night begins. Night, in its turn, is ended by false-dawn, which is the brightening before sunrise. (Those in closest contact with the human monarchs had, with some difficulty, gained a vague understanding of hours and minutes, although it was all considered rather too much counting, and "five minutes" from a Narnian could mean anything from thirty seconds to two hours.) They are as natural about times of year as times of day: a Narnian year is split into twelve months, each a quarter of a season, neatly divided by the solstices and equinoxes. 

How, exactly, a flat world which was orbited by a sun and moon could _have_ solstices and equinoxes was a thing which flummoxed Edmund. Before the recent events he had been trying to work it out on paper, and Peter had no doubt that by the time Edmund understood it, several Centaur astronomers would have torn their hair out in frustration. Peter was sure that, given time, it would beat the incident when Susan insisted on working out everyone's birthday. It was difficult, sometimes, to abandon the learnings of one world for those of another.

This was precisely the issue which plagued Peter. Although he had ordered everyone within earshot not to bother him until at least midday, if not later, it was hardly past mid-morning when his bedroom sprouted a contingent of proud-looking Red Dwarves, led by a Dresthin so smug he very nearly glowed. They brought with them a large wooden barrow, heavily filled, with wheels that squeaked. All Peter could think was that he'd had four hours of sleep, at best, and there was absolutely no way he could explain this deficiency to a room filled with strange Dwarves.

So he did the only thing he could think to do: he smiled as best he could, and rolled from his bed to share out greetings with all five Dwarves, and asked what would bring such industrious personages to his sleeping chambers so early in a working day. He may have smothered one or two yawns, and his hair stuck out every-which way, but everyone involved was polite enough to keep from mentioning it.

"Once we got word from our brother that you were in need of new training gear," one of the Dwarves – what was his name? Karraden? – effused, "we stopped work on all else what we were doing and set to make you the best we could."

"Think we did, too, Sire, think we did," another said.

"Finest yet I've ever seen," a third crowed.

"Made a new set for your brother the King as well," a fourth said.

"Had to, the way he grows," the fifth chimed in, and that set them all to hearty laughter.

Peter, still more than half asleep, mentally scrambled for the high ground. He hadn't trained since – since – _oh._ Since the day Edmund had bashed his training helmet in like a bad egg. Of course. Everything else that had happened since then, well – that was partly to blame for why he was having such a difficult time waking up.

"Your brother?" he repeated, hoping that if he could get the Dwarves talking amongst themselves for a time he'd be able to wake himself up without anyone noticing.

"Now, Sire, you didn't think my mother had just me, did you?" Dresthin asked jovially. And loudly. A jovial Dwarf is far from soft-spoken. Peter hid his wince with a completely put-upon shiver, and fumbled about for a robe. It seemed oddly cold, although that was probably the lack of sleep.

"Of course not," Peter replied, "but I did not know that your family ran a smithy."

"That'd be why I'm one of your armorers, Sire," Dresthin beamed. "Showed that I can tell the good kit from bad, and to whom it'd be best fit without hours of trying on. And you've never had to endure that, have you?"

"Of course, of course." He allowed his yawn, this time, and at the end of it apologized. "Where are my manners? Please make yourselves comfortable in my sitting-room and I'll send for drinks." The Dwarves carefully edged themselves onto seats, at once pleased and nervous – the _High King_ had asked them to have a seat, in his own rooms, and yet – these were the High King's rooms and they were all smiths, best not to touch anything for fear of dirtying or breaking it. During this Peter managed to duck his head out into the hallway.

"Ardons," he hissed at the hall guard.

"Yes, Sire?"

"What are they doing here? I told you: nothing before midday!"

"Could you have stopped them?" the Satyr asked, pressing his spear (mostly decorative: the spear-tip was twined with ribbon and flowers) between forearm and chest and helplessly spreading his hands. "I mean, Sire, if you were me? They were so excited, and you know a Dwarf."

Indeed Peter did. An excited Dwarf was a rare thing, and it could quickly become an angry Dwarf. Considering how steadfast and calm such folk generally were, hot moods confused them, and were easily changed. "I suppose not," Peter said.

"And then they'd have woken you anyway."

"They would."

"Is there anything you need?"

More sleep, Peter thought desperately. More sleep, in a little cave in the side of a mountain, where nobody can find me and try to give me armor that won't stop my brother with the damnably strong arm from bruising my face, because the Lion knows I haven't had nearly enough of dogs laughing at me. "Send up a casket of beer for them. Five mugs. Something for them to eat too."

"And for you, Sire?"

"Tea. The strongest we've got. And lots of it. Oh – wake my brother and bring him here."

"He was not to be disturbed before midday either, Sire. At _your_ command."

"If I have to suffer, so does he."

"Very well. I'll double the order of tea, then?"

"Triple. And hurry it up."

"As you command," and Ardons bolted.

Peter, wishing he could follow, scrubbed a hand across his face and turned back to his unexpected – and unwanted, though he'd never say such a thing – audience. Yes, this called for the strongest tea in Narnia.

-----

"Good morn, good sirs," Queen Susan said, rising from her seat and offering the two Men a curtsey. They returned the Queen's courtesy with awkward, out-of-practice bows – Susan could see that while their bodies were unfamiliar with the custom, these Men had still been bred to good manners – and came closer when Susan beckoned them to.

"Have you broken your fast yet?" she asked solicitously.

"No, Majesty," Ordilan replied. "Nobody called us anywhere."

"Oh,_bother_," said Susan, passing a hand over her flawless brow. "I guess in the confusion nobody mentioned it. If any of you need anything, all you need do is ask one of the guards in the hall and they will have it brought to you."

"Thought they were there to protect you from us," Irlian said. "They were armed."

Susan grasped for a reply – this was the sort of thing her brothers should be handling – but Ordilan beat her to it.

"Sir," he said, turning to Irlian. "Do not berate the lady. I could imagine the guards there for our protection just as easily. In the time I've been here I have been given free run of this castle, and suffered neither a harsh glance nor word from anybody I have met. Now there are three-and-twenty of us they do not know."

"To be honest, yes, it's for your protection as well," Susan said. "Everything was such a mess yesterday. It's possible that not everybody here knows your men are under our protection." She raised her arm, then, and whistled – both Men were perplexed by this – and a Mocking-bird flew from a potted tree at the corner of the room to land on one of Susan's fingers. She smiled at the bird, and when it extended a wing she gently ran her fingers along the edges of its feathers. "If you will, cousin, please tell the guards outside the Galmans' rooms to ask if there is anything those Men need?"

The bird said something in response, in a soft, burbling voice, before taking wing and leaving the room.

"That should take care of them," she said with a smile. "And since neither of you have had your breakfasts yet, will you join me?"

What else could they say but yes?

-----

When Lucy woke, she was first aware of the dimness of the room, and second aware of the lack of something warm at her side. Aelf was gone. She sat up, stretched, and looked around – there was one small lantern lit, and all the windows had heavy curtains pulled over them – and saw Tumnus in his sickbed, still asleep. His head was heavily bandaged and he looked pale.

A Badger nurse intercepted her before she'd even gotten to her feet, knowing that she next would have tried to wake Tumnus. "Hush, Majesty. He'll be fine."

"He doesn't look fine," she said, concerned. "Where has Aelf gone?"

"He woke a bit before you did," the Badger said. "Went outside to have a graze and a good roll-up, probably was groomed before anything else. The fuss he made – I'm surprised he didn't wake you."

"I'm used to it," she said, smiling. And added, at the Badger's curious face, "He has always been like that."

The Badger shook her head. "All the same – I've a few messages for you."

"Oh?" Lucy asked.

"First of all, her Majesty your sister was in here shortly after daybreak. She said that when you woke you needed a good bath, and after that to meet her before you have your breakfast." At this Lucy stilled. She was in for a world of trouble. "She also," the Badger continued, smiling at Lucy's nervousness, "wants you to know she isn't angry with you in the least, and only wishes you'd told her before running off the way you did."

Lucy let out a whooshing sigh of relief.

"She has also said that, if you insist on riding out to battles without anybody to protect you, you will accompany her in her defense training on the third and fifth day of the week. If you disagree she will take it up with your brothers and you may not like what else they ask you to do."

"Oh, I won't," Lucy said. "I promise I won't."

"Tell that to her, then," the Badger grinned, and Lucy smiled too.

"Next is from Calio, the physician attending to Master Tumnus here. She wishes you to know that he's had a nasty knock to the head, but he will be back on his hooves in a few days' time."

"I could use my cordial," Lucy started. "I've got it here still—"

"Your third message," the Badger interrupted, "is from Master Cloudstrike."

"The Centaur?" Lucy asked, perplexed.

"The very same. He wishes you to _not_ use your cordial on Master Tumnus. The two spoke before Calio's sleeping medicines took effect. I do not know why, Lady, but they both wish that Master Tumnus recover from this injury in a natural way. Master Cloudstrike has said that he is at both your and Master Tumnus' disposal, and that he will be near to hand to observe Master Tumnus' recovery."

"I wonder why," Lucy mused.

"I am not sure, my Queen. I do not know of what they spoke, and neither did anybody else. I can tell you that Master Tumnus asked for Master Cloudstrike when he was first received, and that they conversed at some length, privately, before the physicians were allowed to tend him."

"How very strange," Lucy replied. "I wonder what that is about."

"I do not know, Lady, but I am sure that Master Cloudstrike would be willing to speak with you about it. Although – first things first – one may not disobey one's big sister." The Badger winked. "I would suggest that you wash up and find Queen Susan. We brought down some of your things for you to wear, so that you'd not have to go clear across the castle."

Lucy shuddered. "I didn't realize how dirty I was last night." She looked down at her filthy, torn dress. "Eurgh."

"Easily remedied, my Lady," the Badger said. "If you will follow me, we've a bathing-room set up nearby."

"What about Tumnus?"

"Siana?" the Badger called. A young Willow dryad entered the room and dropped a graceful curtsey. "Siana here will keep watch of him and alert us at once if he needs anything."

"Thank you," Lucy said, taking the young Dryad's hands. "Let me know, too, please?"

"Of course, my Lady," the Dryad said, her voice reminiscent of rustling leaves.

Lucy kept hold of her hands and tilted her head, then: "I know you! You're our reading tree, aren't you?"

The Dryad smiled. "I am, Lady."

"Will you stay with him the whole time?"

"I will stay as long as I am needed."

"Thank you," Lucy said, and would have hugged her, until she remembered again just how grubby she was. So she squeezed the nymph's hands once more before releasing them, and then let the Badger bustle her down the hall to have a bath.

On her way to the bath, Lucy looked at her hands and sighed. They were filthy too. She could only imagine how horrid Aelf had felt when he woke – and how tired he must have been to sleep that way.

-----

During the course of their meal Susan kept the conversation light. Irlian, especially, was brimming with questions about how this thing or that_operated_ in Narnia, and she answered him as best she could. She knew from Edmund, who'd had it from Ordilan, that Irlian was a person of some importance in Galma, and gaining his trust would be an essential part of winning the Galmans as a whole.

She'd also heard stories of Edmund's little explosion at the men while on the field of battle, and noticed that once she'd dropped her courtly speech both men relaxed. Clearly they were not used to this, and above all things Susan wished to make them feel comfortable.

Their breakfasting was thus easy and rather enjoyable, although interrupted near-constantly by a stream of messengers from other parts of the castle, which was not unusual the day after a battle. The list of things that needed to be set right was endless, and any difference of opinion between two Narnians living in castle Cair Paravel was often settled by sending a messenger to whichever King or Queen was first found and asking what they thought should be done. Susan used this to her benefit, however, apologizing for the interruptions and then, once she'd learned the issue, asking the men for their opinions. This way, Susan hoped, the men would learn that the rulers of Narnia were approachable about even the smallest concerns, which were then taken seriously and dealt with fairly.

Also in the room were four Satyrs, lightly armed, and two Panthers. To ease tensions further, she invited them to take part in the discussion, and offered them anything they wished from the table. When one of the Panthers' quiet remarks made Irlian laugh heartily, Susan knew that there was no tension remaining on that front either.

It was all, thought Susan, going splendidly – both Humans had relaxed, and she in her turn had relaxed around them. Ordilan, she knew, was somewhat star-struck by her family, and also felt the need to make up for the trouble he'd caused when he had first arrived. Irlian, however, was a tougher nut to crack. His questions, though casual, were insightful, and he reminded her of nothing more than Edmund, if their situations had somehow been reversed. It would be difficult to broach the subject she'd brought them down to discuss, although she knew she must. Oh, she could have left this to one of her brothers, but she doubted somehow that they'd understand the need for gentleness on such a topic.

Gentleness, after all, was what Susan was known for.

-----

"Either we're under siege or I'm going back to bed," a sour voice groused from the doorway.

"Edmund!" Peter crowed, knowing that cheerfulness upon an early waking bothered his brother as much as anything possibly could. "Come in! The brothers of Blacktree surprised me, this morning. I had no idea good armor could be made so quickly."

"Armor?" The sour voice sounded confused now, although Edmund still had not left the dark hallway and set foot in Peter's rooms – which, Peter now noticed, were not nearly as bright as usual.

"Our new training armor."

"They brought that today?"

"About twenty minutes ago, as a matter of fact. I've been waiting for you before I have a look at it. Wouldn't seem fair to spoil the surprise."

Same sentence, different intonation, and still Edmund stayed in the shadows: "They brought _that_ today?"

"Amazing, isn't it?" Peter beamed, although he privately agreed that after the previous day's events he didn't care at all about training armor. He turned to the Dwarves – now well stocked with beer and a platter stacked high with cold roast beef and cheese and thick crusty bread – and said to them, a trifle too loudly, "Oh, he's_useless_ before midday."

"Hence the tea?" Dresthin asked, winking.

"Hence the tea. I'll bring him in." Peter got to his feet, feeling an ache even in muscles he hadn't previously possessed, and stepped out into the hall.

"Brother mine," growled Edmund quietly, "it does not matter how good the armor is. I am going to kill you for this."

"You think they're up here on my invitation?" Peter whispered.

"Midday! We were decreeing all over the place!"

"They must not have heard. Poor blighters said they set out at false dawn."

"Imagine being up at that hour," Edmund grumbled. "Oh. I _was."_

"So was I. And a good while after. Get in here, will you? I've had tea brought up."

This seemed to bolster Edmund a bit. "Strong tea?"

"The strongest we've got."

"This had better be the best armor I've ever seen."

"The way Dresthin goes on it's fit for Aslan himself."

"Still won't save you."

"From?" Peter asked archly. "I may remind you that fratricide is a crime here. Especially amongst Kings."

"I passed that law, didn't I?" Edmund asked.

"You did, the day after I—"

"After you found me drunk in the barracks playing dice with Ruchabrik. I know."

"Consider this your punishment."

"That's what you said the last six times you—"

What six things Peter had done we'll never know, because it was at this point Dresthin himself poked his thickly bearded head into the hall and said, "Trouble, Majesties?"

Both boys smiled widely. "Not at all," they chorused, and followed the Dwarf back into Peter's rooms.

"Before we see that armor," Edmund said, eyeing the teapot and trying to buy as much time as he could, "I'd like to hear all about it."

It is rare that anyone other than a Dwarf shows interest in smithcraft. The five assembled in Peter's rooms had never been so happy. A shame, truly, that those who are cheerful upon rising bother King Edmund so.

-----

A bright whirlwind of skirts and bare feet dashed across the room: Lucy had arrived. Susan rose to embrace her, ignoring the wet spot Lucy's damp hair left on the front of her dress. Both Galmans rose as well, and the scrape of their wooden chairs startled Lucy into noticing they were there.

She stilled, somewhat taken aback by the presence of other Humans, and dropped a wobbly curtsey. "Good morn, sirs," she said. "I hope you've been comfortable here."

They bowed in response – somewhat easier than they had to Susan, as though their bodies were now remembering how these things were done – and before re-seating themselves assured Lucy that the beds were excellent.

"So is the food!" Irlian crowed. "Have you come to join us?"

"If I'm no trouble," Lucy said. She turned to Susan. "I didn't know you already had company."

"Not at all," Susan said. "I've finished, but there's plenty left. And," the sternness in her voice was betrayed by the glint in her eye, "I'd expect you need a good breakfast in you after the day you had."

"Do I!" Lucy agreed. Then she shared smiles out with the Satyrs and Panthers, greeting them cheerfully with a "Morning, cousins!" before taking the seat next to Susan. She folded her feet under her, preferring to sit cross-legged instead of letting her feet dangle, and instead of asking for this or that to be passed, raised up on her knees to load her own plate. One of the Satyrs stepped in, rearranging the platters so Lucy wouldn't have to climb up on the table (nobody was sure whether she'd do this or not) and filled a glass of cool water for her as well. Once Lucy's plate was filled with bread and cheese and fruit, she re-settled herself in her seat and fell to with hardly a thought of anything else.

Irlian chuckled. "She reminds me of my youngest," he said, a note of paternal – or, perhaps, avuncular – fondness in his voice. Lucy, who had just then fit nearly an entire slice of bread-and-butter in her mouth, glanced up at Irlian in surprise.

"No offense meant, Lady," he apologized.

Lucy swallowed with some difficulty, and said thickly, "You've got a family?"

"Aye, Majesty. My wife Laira and I have two daughters, Jira and Alice."

"I'd very much like to meet them," Lucy said with a smile.

"I'm sure they'd like to meet you," Irlian said.

"Good sirs," Susan said, thinking Lucy could not have set the opportunity up more perfectly, "my sister has, in her way, addressed the reason I wished to speak with you this morning."

"Has she?" Irlian asked, tensing almost imperceptibly. Ordilan, noticing this, glanced from his captain to Susan, who he saw had noticed it as well. (Lucy was busy with some late-summer strawberries.)

"Since your arrival," and here Susan nodded to Ordilan, "my family and I have been most curious about the Humans on Galma. My brother the High King, especially, feels horrid about the fact that we had not been able to contact you sooner. Is there anything Narnia can do for Galma?"

"What's it like there?" Lucy piped in. "Did you really live underground because of a Dragon? Are there many children?"

Ordilan glanced at Irlian, who nodded at him. "My captain and I had wished to speak with you about this, but we did not know how to broach the subject. Life in Galma is – and has been – very hard for a very long time. We make do as best we can, and we pride ourselves on still following King Edward's orders." Everyone waited for him to say more, but Ordilan was quiet, trying to arrange his thoughts.

"Please tell us about it," Susan said. "Then we will know how to make it better."

"The bigger question," Irlian said, "is whether or not Galma will allow it."

Now the entire room was tense, and – _Clink!_ – they all jumped. Lucy had dropped her butter-knife.

"What do you mean?" she asked Irlian.

-----

"And we've made some adjustments, you see," said one of the Dwarves – Teckin, was it? Their names all swam together in Edmund's befuddled head. "That way it'll be easier for you to get in and out of your armor, without losing any protection. If you like the way it works we'd be delighted to make you some battlefield armor as well."

Clearly word about Peter's obsession with Edmund's hauberks had gotten out. Just as well: the fool had it coming. Edmund smiled.

The low wooden table in front of the couches in Peter's sitting-room had been cleared of all breakfast debris to make room for the new armor. The armor itself had, each piece, been lovingly wrapped in sheets of muslin, and it was rather like opening Christmas presents. The young Kings had opened their suits of armor – each bundle had had a tag, saying something like "King Peter's breastplate" or "King Edmund's gambeson," and after enduring lengthy discussion about the merits of each piece, had retreated to other rooms – Edmund in Peter's bathing-room and Peter in his bedroom – to put the stuff on.

Training armor is not entirely like battle armor. On the whole it is heavier and bigger. Heavier, because if one learns to fight under the additional weight, one will move that much better in lighter fighting gear. And larger, because of all the protective padding that is put underneath. Oreius and the rest of the training-yard instructors knew well their Kings' capacity for damaging each other and as a result the practice padding was much thicker than the stuff worn for a battle.

Edmund was quite pleased with all the innovations and new touches the Blacktree dwarves had worked out, and although his armor seemed rather roomy he was sure he'd get accustomed to it. Maybe his old armor had grown too small without his realizing it. Susan often commented on how quickly he went through clothes, after all, and he never noticed that either.

"Are you ready?" he shouted to Peter.

"I am," Peter replied, though his voice sounded somewhat constricted.

When they both re-entered the room Edmund saw why. Peter's shoulders were pulled back tightly and the hauberk ended well above where it should have. Somebody, somewhere, had got the labeling right on the padding but mixed the sets of armor up entirely.

Peter stiffly walked into the middle of the room. "Good sirs," said he, "I think there's been a mix-up."

All five Dwarves shot to their feet.

Edmund banged the visor of his – or was it Peter's? – helmet down and allowed himself to grin widely, hoping that that would stop him from laughing. It didn't, especially when the brothers of Blacktree tried to sort out whose fault it was.

During this raucous argument Ardons, the brave Satyr hall-guard, opened the door. "Sires?" he called. "Your sisters wish your presence. If I am not distur—" A shout cut him off, and with some trepidation he peeked into the room.

King Peter, moving stiffly in too-small armor, was on his feet, trying to keep two Red Dwarves from attacking each other with their bare fists. Two of the others had taken sides, shouting the best Dwarfish obscenities at the tops of their lungs, and Dresthin was helping his liege separate his brothers as best he could. On the other side of the room, someone in armor three sizes too big – that could only be King Edmund – was kneeling on the floor, his helmeted head in his gauntleted hands, laughing uproariously.

For the second time that day, Ardons turned tail and fled.

* * *

Notes for Chapter 17: 

_On time and times:_ I did a quick run-through of the Narnia books which dealt with the Golden Age (LW&W and H&HB) and there was only one mention of minutes and half-hours that I saw. (It's when the Beavers are trying to figure out how long Ed's been gone and how much time they have before the Witch gets to them.) My reasoning is laid out in that paragraph, I think, but besides it just makes _sense._ What use does a tree or a rabbit or a goat have for a wristwatch? They live outdoors and they watch the sky. They do things when they need to get done. I'd guess that Helen and Frank brought their (our?) time-sense with them, so likely the Galmans still have it (we'll find out). Don't mind my lengthy justification – the history of keeping time is yet another thing I never thought I'd research for a Narnia story. It's fascinating though, have a look on Wikipedia.

_On tree-spirits:_ I'm working with book canon here, not movie canon. I thought the drifty people-shaped flowers were a bit silly. Too much showing-off with the CGI. Lewis describes a Dryad thus: "She was like a woman but so tall that her head was on a level with the Centaur's: yet she was like a tree too. It is hard to explain if you have never seen a Dryad but quite unmistakable once you have—something different in the colour, the voice, and the hair." That's page sixteen of my copy of _The Last Battle,_ which is so old it's really a stack of pages held together with a rubber band. How I haven't lost the covers I don't know - the binding crumbled away ages ago.

_On armor:_ I'm sort of guessing here about the weight and padding being different, but it makes sense. If anyone more knowledgeable about this stuff would like to educate me further, please, have at it.

_On previous notes:_ "Eta kooram na smech," loosely translated, means "That's something only a chicken would laugh at" and is from the movie Serenity. "May your blade chip and shatter" is what the Fremen in Dune tell each other before they fight with their crysknives. Those are made from the teeth of a sandworm, not a Kraken. Luckily for our heroes, the proscription against such knives being unsheathed without blood being shed does not apply to the one Peter's got.


	18. War, Dwarves, and Fear

_In which Oreius is badly startled, Susan is forced to remember past frights, and Tumnus suffers the touch of wild magic._

* * *

"Ngh." A cough. "Anyone there?"

"Rest yourself, little cousin," a melodious voice said gently. "I am here."

"As am I," a much older and rougher voice added.

"Oh, good. Been hoping you were."

"I have your talisman as well," the rougher voice said. "Here. Open your hand."

"Thank you." Another cough. "I need—"

"Water, yes. A moment." There was rustling in the room, and then the sound of liquid being poured, and a moment later a smooth, strong arm slid under his shoulders to lift him. "Slowly," Siana the willow-nymph said. "It is not going anywhere."

"Thank you. Are we alone?"

"We are," Cloudstrike said.

"Do you wish me to leave?" Siana asked.

"Nay, child," Cloudstrike told her. "You will likely understand the things we discuss. You may even know more than we do."

"The forest-father," Tumnus muttered, turning the small rock in his hands. "I'd never seen him before. Except now I'm not sure if I did or not. Did I dream it?"

"I believe you saw him," Cloudstrike said. "Although I am not sure why he came to you."

"Pan came to you?" Siana asked.

"I think he did. I have the rock, so he must have. Unless I imagined it all and added the rock." Tumnus turned to the nymph. "Have you ever seen him?"

She furrowed her brow and thought. "I am young. I was not yet a seed when the Witch came, and during the winter I grew slowly. But I know of him. Since the Witch was driven from this land he has not come to the fires. Nobody has seen him dance. We do not often see him. He wanders and talks to himself. He does not respond when he is spoken to. He looks lost. He looks hurt. He does not talk to the trees anymore."

"He is hurt," Tumnus whispered. "He's in so much pain. His eyes."

"Because of the curse," Cloudstrike said.

"Why didn't any of you tell them?" Tumnus asked.

"We thought they knew," Siana said simply. "It's not magic trees can undo. We don't know how. It's blood magic. We don't understand that."

"They know now," Cloudstrike said. "Our little humans are quite resourceful. They'll see this ended, and the rest of the world restored. The humans from Galma will help, once they trust us."

"Blood magic," Tumnus repeated. "That's one of the things he said. He said blood magic wasn't his. He said I came from blood. I think my mother was Human."

"Not that unusual, before Jadis," Cloudstrike said. "More often sons of the forest are borne of Dryads, but occasionally they were fathered on Human women."

"My father never mentioned her. I never thought about her. Now I can't stop. It frightens me to think of what could have happened to her. He said she was stabbed. That's all he would tell me. I don't think he cared."

"Aslan knows," Cloudstrike said. "Whether he'd tell you is something else – but I assure you he knows. She's in his country now."

"I hope it wasn't in that castle."

"As do I, cousin."

"My father is there," Tumnus said, after some quiet. "In the boneyards."

"You know this?" Cloudstrike asked.

"He has to be. They went to attack her. They never came home. Then there was the prophecy." He laughed, crazily. "Too late to save him. Too late to save _me_. I took her pay. She passed by in the woods one day and ordered me. Threw a bag of coins to the ground and said, should you ever see anything you'll know what to do." Another laugh. A tear slid free of one eye. "I took them. I bought bread and tea. Lamp oil and books. She killed my parents. She tortured so many people." His hands clenched into fists. "I said yes when she asked. Of course I would if it please you, Highness. Flattered a murderer."

Cloudstrike turned to Siana. "Fetch Calio at once. Tell her to bring the sleeping tea."

Siana nodded and was gone.

"Be at peace, little cousin," Cloudstrike said, taking Tumnus' clenched hand in both his own. "The touch of Phorbas will fade."

"Touch of _her_ won't. I'm marked. Everyone knows."

"That was forgiven long ago."

"That was wrong of them." The determination in his voice surprised Cloudstrike, who did not let it show. "I don't know why I say these things," Tumnus whispered. "I'm so frightened."

"Shh, cousin. This is not easily borne, but it must be."

"And I won't know," said Tumnus after a pause, as though continuing a conversation he'd been having with himself. "All those bones and I won't know which are hers. Carried me in her own body, and I won't recognize what's left of it."

"If she is there."

"She is. Has to be. Just like my father. I should be there too."

"You were there long enough," Cloudstrike said.

"Should have left me there. Crumble into nothing. Moss and rocks. Wasted breath."

"Why you insist on this, Master, I don't know." Calio had arrived: a decidedly stern Centaur matron around whom even Oreius, it was said, stepped lightly. She wore an undyed linen tunic over her woman-body, and her greying hair was pulled in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her left hand held a steaming wooden cup and her right was placed firmly on her woman-waist. In her wake bobbed Siana, looking humble and very young.

"He isn't strong enough to bear it," Calio said, glaring at Cloudstrike for a moment, "and you see that as well as I do." She strode towards the other side of the bed and slid an arm under Tumnus' shoulders. "You're going to drink this for me, little one," she ordered, and her voice was surprisingly gentle when she said it.

"More sleep?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Better than this," he said agreeably, and when Calio lifted the cup to his lips he drank the foul-smelling brew to the dregs. He quieted immediately, his hands relaxing and eyes closing. Calio lifted the bandage across his head, looked under it, nodded briskly and tsked to herself, then tugged it back over his brow. She smoothed the blankets over Tumnus, then turned to the other occupants of the room.

"Siana," Calio said, "stay with him. You," this was to Cloudstrike, "owe me an explanation. Consider it practice for when the young Queen gets here." Their eyes locked for a moment, and then Cloudstrike conceded. He gestured to the doorway and Calio preceded him out.

Siana settled herself on the wooden stool next to the bed. She raised a hand, thought better of touching Tumnus where any bandages were, and rested it instead on his shoulder.

"The stone," he said softly. "S'very important. Keep it safe." He turned his hand, palm up, and opened his fingers. Siana plucked it from his hand and placed it on the table.

"It is here," said she, taking his hand, "and so am I. You are not alone."

"Good," he replied, before sleep took him.

--

Ardons had not, as the Narnian monarchs say, _cut and run_; while he had fled, he'd done so with purpose_,_ and returned in hot pursuit of the one personage in all of castle Cair Paravel who'd be able to sort out the scene in King Peter's private rooms.

However, in his haste, Ardons had failed to mention a few choice details, like how the Kings were in no danger save that of possibly needing to replace some of Peter's furniture. Ardons would argue later – quite right he was about it too – that the rescuer of their most beleaguered Majesties had not heard anything but Kings, Five, Angry, and Dwarfs before taking off.

Peter and Dresthin had by now turned back to back – Peter, with great difficulty, was crouched to better handle his subjects – so that they could keep all of the brothers of Blacktree at a literal arm's length from each other. Edmund was still on the ground, shuddering and emitting a sort of wheeze now and then, with both arms wrapped tightly around his belly, which ached from laughing.

It was into this tableau that the noble, stern, and above all _damn frightening sometimes_ (as Edmund had said, once) General Oreius burst, a bare sword in his right hand.

"Who dares fight in the presence of their Kings?" he demanded.

The bickering Dwarfs fell silent at once. Dresthin heaved a sigh of relief and leaned heavily against Peter's back. Peter glanced up at the Centaur framed in the doorway, tried to figure out how to explain what had happened, realized that would probably be impossible, sighed to himself, and shifted his own weight backwards upon the sturdy Dresthin so that they supported each other. Edmund looked up, and from his well-muffled mouth one disbelieving word squeaked: "Oreius?"

"It is I," the Centaur replied briskly. "Are you hurt?"

Was he _hurt?_ That, surely, topped it all. He had fought a difficult battle the previous night, and made the first step towards a national alliance. He had suffered an early awakening from an insistent but flustered Satyr. He had listened in irritated silence as five proud Dwarfs spent far too much time extolling the virtues of their own craftsmanship. He had, on a day off – for the day after a battle was a day the young Kings were expected to rest – stoically endured far too much silliness, far too early, with far too little sleep. The floodgates of King Edmund's laughter had been breached, and could not possibly be contained again. And then Oreius burst in! Was he hurt? It was all too much. Bowed as he was under the weight of Peter's admittedly impressive new training armor, it was all Edmund could do to keep from laughing – as by now it did hurt. All he could do in reply was wheeze and curl himself more firmly so that his head rested on the floor.

Had Edmund been in better control of his faculties, he may have expected what happened next.

Oreius crossed the room in one huge step. Quicker than thinking, he reached into the nest of Dwarfs, picked Peter up by the back of his hauberk as though King and kit weighed nothing at all (causing Dresthin to fall down), and unceremoniously dropped the High King on his rear next to his brother.

"Peter," said he, "see to your brother."

"He's not—" Peter tried.

The unfortunate Ardons had by now made his way back, and stood in the doorway with both hands over his mouth.

"Dwarf," Oreius said, his voice a cold threat and his sword held firm, "explain the meaning of this at _once_."

Silence held for a handful of moments.

The Dwarfs – a pity Oreius had not specified to whom he spoke – _all_ tried to explain. Oreius' face darkened.

"I can't wait until we tell the girls!" Edmund howled.

For the third time that day, and for the first time out of fear, Ardons fled. Peter watched him go, wishing, again, that he could follow.

--

Lucy looked at the butter knife she'd let fall. She'd heard of tension being thick enough to cut with a knife, and now, she thought, she fully understood the expression. Although, this tension was so thick it would take a better knife than the one lying on her plate.

"It isn't an easy thing to explain," said Ordilan, who shoved back his chair and took to his feet.

"I think you misunderstand," Susan offered. "My siblings and I have our hands full running Narnia. We're not interested in conquest."

Lucy smiled at this.

"Galma was part of Narnia, once," Irlian said. "You wouldn't want it to be again?"

"Only if the Galmans wish it to be," Susan said. "In this my family is in complete agreement. We would welcome Galma as part of Narnia, but for now we have more pressing interests there."

"What are they?" Irlian asked.

"Restoration," Susan said simply. "When our scouts searched the island, all was in ruin. I'm sure you're more aware than I of how much has been lost. We want to see Galma's towns rebuilt and her fields tilled again."

Irlian whistled quietly to himself. "That's a big thing," he told his lieutenant.

"It is," Ordilan agreed, "but again – meaning no disrespect – I'm not sure how well that will go over."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Susan said.

"Imagine a war," said Ordilan, "that is not a war. Imagine that the fighting is done in places hundreds of miles away, that all of your best fighting men have gone there to help, and that not one enemy soldier has touched your own shores. And yet – imagine that your home and everything you know is being destroyed by this enemy. A ruthless, merciless enemy that wishes for nothing more than to see your own home, which it has never set foot upon, reduced to piles of broken rock and ash. But your people have survived that. They have hidden underground. They mend their clothes and make their rations last. Imagine a hundred years of that." Ordilan turned away, as though embarrassed at having spoken so freely, and studied the view out a nearby window. Susan, pale-faced with her own memories, twisted a napkin in her lap.

"I don't know about a hundred years," Lucy said shyly, "but the place we came from was just like that."

Susan looked down at the napkin in her hands, and then to her sister. "You remember so much?" she asked.

"I remember enough. I thought the world would end when I was asleep," Lucy said. "Then we went to the country, and – sometimes I wonder if London is still _there._ Or if they all speak German now. I think they might."

Susan smoothed a hand over Lucy's hair. Irlian studied the two queens intently: whatever trauma they had experienced was most certainly real, if the mere mention of it could quiet them this way.

"How can you have experienced such a thing?" Irlian asked.

"Has nobody told you about the place we come from?"

"What, Spare Oom?" Ordilan asked, puzzled. "It sounds as though they found you hidden in this castle."

Lucy smiled in a small way, still lost in unwanted memory. "Not exactly. But Mr. Tumnus was never good at geography."

"Your brother told me of what has happened since you arrived in Narnia," Ordilan said. "But nothing of what came before."

"Then it's time someone did," Susan replied. "It is not an easy story to tell, though. You'll have to forgive us if – some of it is still hard to talk about."

"If it were easy," Irlian said gently, "it wouldn't be true, would it?"

--

A swing. _Clash._

Another swing. _Crash._

"Good stuff though, isn't it?"

"Now we know whose is whose, yeah."

"The look on Oreius' face—"

_Crash._

"Brother."

"What?"

"Do you want him to give us _another_ hour after the three for scaring him?"

_Smash._

"Mm. No. Don't think I do."

"Good. Shut up then."

_Bang._

"Shut up?"

"I'm King over you. And older. Shut up. I'd like to have lunch before the sun goes down."

_Crash._

"Not like it properly came up. Some weather. Think it's related to—"

_Clash._

"Has to be."

"How do we fight it?"

_Bang._

"I don't know yet."

* * *

The Notes for Chapter Eighteen Are Almost As Long As The Chapter:

_On the proper word for more than one Dwarf:_ I've changed it to "Dwarfs" instead of "Dwarves," because Lewis preferred the former. If I ever get around to tidying up my previous chapters I'll change it there too.

_On Talkin' World War Two:_ Lucy's take on whether everyone in London speaks German now is influenced by the Dr. Who episodes 'The Empty Child' and 'The Doctor Dances.' I can't remember which one had the scene where the girl is shocked that Rose doesn't speak German, but – that's where it's from. The parallels between the two places – England and Galma – in respect to the wars that went on in each are close enough, I think, that the girls can build an understanding with the Galmans.

_On the origins of Fauns:_ Where did they come from, thought I, and why are they all male? I need to know the hows and whys; I'm very like Eustace, sometimes. The answer to this is simple: because the Greeks said so. Every scrap of myth I could find told me that Fauns, Satyrs, and Pan himself all chased after everything female: water-sprites, wood-sprites, and human women. Pan's mother was human, Penelope by name (not the one married to Odysseus), and his father was the messenger-god Hermes. If you're curious about this I recommend Theoi Greek Mythology (theoi dot com), but be aware that these are all fertility gods, and most of the pottery and statues shown are adult in nature.

_On Pan, Phorbas, and panic:_ The story is that any traveler finding themselves alone in the woods was fair game for Pan. Pan would stalk the traveler until they were bolting out of the forest in inexplicable terror. I guess Pan didn't like strangers in the kitchen. Thus, 'panic' easily became the name for a sudden onset of fear without cause. Panic and delirium being caused by the touch of Pan is all me, I think. Phorbas, by the by, was Pan's name when he was spooking people. He was also referred to as Agreus the hunter-prophet, and Nomios of the pastures. Phobos, the god of fear and namesake of one of the moons of Mars, is a different deity altogether. (Careful with the spelling: _Phurbas_ are Tibetan Buddhist ritual implements and have nothing to do with any of this.) Interestingly, one of Pan's alter-egos, Phaunos, was mothered by _Kirke_. I see you, Professor!

_On preferring Greek versions:_ Less cross-contamination. A lot of Roman stories were altered to cast historical figures in a new light. More importantly, Rome absorbed many other cultures and their mythology got mixed up. The earliest source of all this stuff is Greek, back in the olden days when the shepherds on island mountains were genuinely wondering whether that noise was Nomios or Phorbas watching them. Canon supports me here, since Lewis mostly used Greek: fauns, satyrs, minotaurs, naiads, dryads, fauns' names with the _–us_ or _–os_ endings, and Silenus – although he switched to Roman when he mentioned Silenus' homeboy Bacchus. Bacchus, as Dionysus, was a close compatriot of Pan. We may meet him someday.

I never formally studied world mythology, but I have a bookshelf devoted to it – and I hit it for backup when canon leaves me blank. To me, this is _fun_.


	19. Meeting at Harvest Time

_In which a request is made, all hands are kept busy, and the life of a King is weighed._

* * *

The sun only showed that it had risen by brightening the heavy clouds which lay like a thick grey blanket from horizon to horizon. The air was close and humid and still, punctuated by swift gusts that felt cold but cooled nobody.

The Narnians who had ventured from the protecting walls of castle Cair Paravel were walled, in their way, by guards. Out of deference to the Galmans, who had no such skill, nobody rode horseback. Despite this, Phillip, Galthis, Aelf, and Sida – Susan's mount, a slate-grey mare – accompanied their Humans, in case a hasty escape should prove necessary. Four feet, after all, were faster than two. They were also accompanied by as many draft-beasts as could be found on short notice: the strongest of the Horses, Hangik the Moose, a few even-tempered Bulls and some of their powerful Cow mates, and last of all a contingent of Dogs, both scout and sentry.

The guards were led, of course, by Oreius, who kept one tense hand on his sword-hilt, alert to any disturbance.

Edmund, however, was only alert to the sound of the water-drums.

--

The bowls were large and made of wood, cunningly crafted in Dryad-fashion, which of course means perfection, for Dryads have their own methods of woodwork. The sides, although unpolished, shone subtly. Each bowl flared at the bottom into a pedestal foot, so that the spherical bowls would stand securely. Inside each bowl was another bowl, a smaller half-sphere without the base, floating upside-down in the water which half filled the larger bowls. When struck, the floating bowls boomed, and the air trapped beneath them shaped the sound. It was haying time, despite the strange weather, and wooden scythes swung to the sound of the water drums. They sang in the Old Language as they worked, the untiring Dryads swinging their sharp wooden blades, and the music was more beautiful now that Edmund understood some of the words.

Edmund understood the method, and in summers past the Dryads had allowed him to play the water drums. (He had, once, tried to build a set of his own with several large salad bowls purloined from the kitchen; Peter had banged on the chamber door asking what the racket was, and in his haste to clear things away Edmund had very nearly caused a flood.) Harvest season was beautiful, to Edmund, because of this: his duties as monarch kept him behind walls much of the time, and the music of the forest was a rare treat to savor. Of his family, Edmund was likely the most fond of music, or at least the aspect of creating it: his sisters preferred to dance, and Peter was content to sit quietly and listen. Edmund always wished to be amongst the musicians, and was happy to join the pipers or the singers, but his sense of rhythm drew him most strongly to drumming.

He wondered what this would look like to an outsider – strange, then, that he no longer felt he was one. He tried to remember a time when he had been one, but after the enchanted snow had melted away he had felt as much a part of Narnia as the rocks themselves. He remembered his first Narnian summer: how he had been at once full of questions and shy to speak, and how he had been encouraged to ask, to listen, to understand.

He had learned, that first summer, of the forest-gardens, the fields, the Dryads' gentle but absolute control of everything green and growing, the ways in which the Naiads and the woodland creatures assisted them. Much as the mute trees of an ordinary forest provide shelter and sustenance for all the life inside a forest, the Talking Trees fed and housed Narnia. Theirs was the task of tending growing things, and they took to it willingly, with skill far beyond that of humans or the creatures of the forest. They grew things in carefully-tended forest gardens, only clearing as much land as was needed for things that required direct sunlight to grow. The ground beneath the trees in the wild Narnian forest supported a mix of useful plants: some were for food, some for medicine or dyes, and others for clothing and paper. The Dryads tended them all, using their magic to make the plants thrive, and when it came time, they harvested and stored the forest's gifts.

Edmund found himself explaining these things to Ordilan and Irlian, who had recognized in the young King a mind and sense of curiosity similar to their own. Each question he answered invited a multitude of new ones. Edmund found that he enjoyed explaining these things as they traveled, and that his understanding of it all increased with the retelling.

Even under the strange magic clouding the sky, Edmund felt the wane of summer in his bones – a leave-taking, with a promise to return – and knew he was at home in a way he himself did not fully understand. At any other time he would only have thought of nothing more than installing himself with the drummers, the water splashing on his forearms as he struck the bowls. Today was different, however; this entire harvest season would be different, and the winter following it. Edmund felt the pang of being unable to join in the activities the season demanded, and the thought of a winter of a hundred years seemed hurtful in an entirely new way.

Edmund pushed the thought aside and focused on the gentle clamor around him. The expedition – which, as always, could be called a party from every common definition of the word – had set out at full-morning, and although the sun was hidden behind clouds, it seemed close to noon. In years previous, a group this size leaving castle Cair Paravel for the forests would be on its way to join the festivities marking the turn of the year. Today, however, they were hoping to conduct a harvest of their own.

--

A ship was the thing, and the idea had evolved independently from all quarters. The first person to voice the thought was Susan, who had a moment of pleased shock when all others gaped at her and then, each in their own way, admitted that they'd been thinking much the same. Narnia needed to return to Galma, and with Centaurs and Griffons in tow, the Galmans' smaller boats would not be adequate. Thus it was to be a ship – only as large as needed, for the Narnian visiting party would be small, and the voyage would be short.

Dwarfs tend to view woodworking as a lesser craft than the manipulation of metal or stone. Wood decays, and while any Dwarf will freely admit that water and weather can wear down stone, they will remind you soon after that in the time it takes to do so entire forests will rise and fall. Material preferences aside, Dwarfs are eminently practical, and it was clear to them that a stone ship was an impossibility.

However, three Dwarfs were put aside to build the figurehead which would then be placed on the prow. Old traditions die hard, and when some Galman had thrown that idea as a concession, the Dwarfs, of course, pounced on it. "Can't have our Majesties arriving in anything but the best," one had said, and despite the general impatience of those gathered, there was also agreement – as long as the statue would be ready in time.

Paper had been brought in, enormous rolls of it taller than Lucy, and spread over the huge wooden table in the campaign room. Around this the Galman engineers and the Dwarf builders gathered, crossing over each others' notes, arguing and improvising in hushed tones, snatching stumps of lead from each other to work on the drawing of the first ship in new Narnia's fleet.

A _ketch,_ the Galmans titled it: the boat was a flat-bottomed thing, capable of being hauled onto a beach – a necessity, considering the size of some of the passengers, and the lack of any docks in both Narnia and Galma. Its stern was squared, and the bow in front curved to a graceful point so that it would more easily cut through water. It had two masts, one large and one small, with simple square sails. The whole contraption was steered by a large rudder affixed to the stern. There was a small fore-cabin built into the rise of the bow. It was just large enough for the monarchs' bedrolls, and was marked for their use. All the other passengers would have to stay on the deck. (The main deck was the only deck, except for the watch-roof above the tiny cabin; below there was only space for bilge.) As it was, Lucy was likely the only one who would be able to move about in there without ducking her head: the roof would be quite low.

Although none of the present Galmans had ever set foot on such a craft, several of the men knew precisely how to build one. If Edmund and Peter kept maps and chessboards in their heads, these Galman engineers kept ship plans in theirs. Galmans, after all, were sea-farers; they accepted the necessity of hiding underground for a hundred years, but they did not lose themselves in the darkness. Irlian was particularly delighted with this turn of events. He had brought certain men who had knowledge of engineering and shipbuilding, in the hope that they could build new vessels with Narnian materials. Every Galman was anxious to complete the shipbuilding so that they could test the new vessel. Its maiden voyage would be the trip to Galma, but they insisted on ensuring the craft's seaworthiness before the expedition was underway.

The design of a boat was only the beginning, however: the Narnian monarchs watched in shock, and then in delight, as every possible complication of the expedition was brought up and then swiftly dealt with. Rope was needed for rigging, corn-stalk tar to treat the rope, pine-pitch for sealing the boat, cloth for sails, and metal for hand-pumps and cleats. Of course pennants and ribbons had to be tacked everywhere possible; of course the sails had to be embroidered, if time allowed; of course the boat itself had to be painted as brightly as possible. Food and drink was found easily enough, but the Galmans warned that they had hardly fare enough to feed themselves, so the visitors would do well to bring their own provisions. Narnian hospitality being what it was, it would not _do_ to have a feast without sharing, so rather a lot of the boat would be carrying supplies. This all, of course, depended on how long the _ketch_ would take to make the voyage: the Galmans estimated a day and a half, with favorable wind. Their tiny four-man vessels had taken four days to cross the distance. The passenger list, too, needed consideration. Oreius would not allow his monarchs to travel anywhere without both himself and a decent guard. Several Galman men would be needed to sail the _ketch_. A sensible argument could be made for most of the core of Narnia's government to make this journey, although (with the enormous amount of provisions) the passenger list needed to be kept reasonably small: twenty at the absolute most, and that number included the Galman sailing crew.

This fuss had been going on for several days, with people running to and from the campaign room at all hours of day and night, and the chaos gradually spread to envelop the entirety of castle Cair Paravel. Over it all hung the sense of hurry, as thick as the heavy clouds scudding across the inverted bowl of the sky.

--

Above all else, the construction of a boat required wood, and that was why Edmund found himself near the forest on what should have been the lazy sort of summer-end day where the heat cools rapidly after nightfall. When wood was needed, the Dryads were told, and after a time the Dryads would return and give instructions as to where it could be found, already cut and stacked. Everyone knew that the Dryads had a special method of felling trees, but nobody knew how the work was done – in sharp contrast to the crop-tending festivities, the Dryads were secretive about the things they did to care for the silent trees. This, however, was different: the Galmans had very specific ideas about what sort of trees needed to be felled, and did not fully trust that the Dryads could see to it.

The party had slowly wound past the hay fields, exchanging pleasantries and receiving fresh food as it went. Edmund longed to join the drummers. Lucy, for the first time that day, seemed to perk up a little, speaking more animatedly to Aelf, and occasionally replying to Susan, whose smile came more easily. Peter's step loosened and he swung his arms, occasionally laughing at jokes thrown his way. Some of the Narnian guard had relaxed enough to converse or sing with the Galmans, who felt – not incorrectly, considering their lives – that this was a holiday. Oreius, however, kept on alert and stayed close to Peter, speaking to him in brief, quiet sentences.

As always, there were more things going on than could be easily kept track of. Oreius had stepped up the castle army's patrols of the woods nearby, and had used Edmund's messenger system to mobilize what Peter called the 'home patrol' – an informal sort of militia which had been planned against this sort of eventuality. The reports back were, simultaneously, heartening and confusing. Stories came back of skirmishes here and there – a Were-Wolf found in the Dancing Lawn; a group of Ghouls drifting in from the northern border; six belligerent Satyrs northwest of the Fords of Beruna. Overall, though, things were much quieter than Oreius had expected, and this unnerved him. He and Peter had essentially called up an active war-state: the patrols were required to check in on a strict schedule, and winged messengers from more distant parts of the country were seen coming and going so that Cair Paravel was kept aware of Narnia's condition.

--

"One thing I'll give her," said Peter – no need to ask who _her_ could be – "she was in the middle. It takes us near to a week to get to the Western Wild."

"The seat of Narnia's power has always been there, Sire," Oreius replied. "It was thought best to be as near to the coast as possible, since Aslan always comes from the east."

"But Aslan can show up anywhere he wants," Peter grumbled good-naturedly, not liking to be caught up by the finer points of a history which he was still learning piecemeal.

"Consider it as a matter of respect. One does not want to make his journey longer than necessary."

"I know, I know," Peter said, ducking his head and offering a good-natured grin. This was returned by a friendly quirk of the Centaur's eyebrow, as fast as an eyeblink, a thing one would have to know the General quite well to even notice.

"As well," Oreius continued, "when there were other humans in Narnia most lived close to the sea. It was easier, that way – they could distribute their man-things that the people of the forest did not need, and they were not disturbing others there."

Peter considered this, and found it to make sense. Eastern Narnia, after all, was the least heavily wooded part of the country. Humans generally preferred space, although he was not sure why. Then a thought came, and – "Oreius, did any of the settlements survive?"

"I am not sure. Many of them were destroyed by the Witch's forces. I cannot remember where they all were. Cloudstrike might."

"Maybe there are some more maps," Peter mused.

"It is likely. In either case, once the humans had been hunted out, their homes were destroyed, so that they would have nothing to return to. The Witch saw this as insurance. Remember, she knew of the prophecy and the four empty thrones in Cair Paravel. She did not know which humans would fulfill the prophecy, so she felt it best to ensure none remained in Narnia."

"And then she cast the spell that sealed Narnia from the rest of the world."

"Aye."

"Oreius, why on earth did you never mention this before?"

"You had not asked," the Centaur said, his tone both amused and final, and Peter felt anew the fact that, for all their familiarity, the beings in Narnia were in some ways completely _alien_.

"Sire," Oreius said, after some time, jarring Peter from this thought, "I think we have arrived."

And so they had. Where the trees grew thickest, and the ground was shadowed beneath, there stood the oldest and wildest tree-spirits that Peter had ever seen.

--

"We know why you are here," one of the Dryads said. "You seek to reunite many things long lost."

"We do," said Peter, holding both hands out in a Narnian gesture of greeting, which technically was a gesture of a lack of hostility: his empty hands were kept far from his weapons. Ordinarily, the gesture would be repeated, and then the two so greeting would clasp hands together. The Dryads, however, did not seem to have that convention. Peter let his hands fall, loosely, at his sides. "Although I will tell you freely that we do not entirely know how to complete the task. We are doing all that we can. If you have any wisdom, we would gladly hear it."

"Many things he asks," said another tree-spirit, this one reminding Peter of nothing so much as an illustration of one of the three crones from Macbeth, which he had read a lifetime ago in school. "Many things," the tree-crone repeated. "He wishes for wood and wind to reunite him with his brothers, and for bones to rest, to bring back the world. Now he wishes for knowledge."

Peter was now thoroughly perplexed, as he always felt when dealing with Narnians who had very little contact with Humans; this was not a new feeling to him, however, and he did not let it sway him. He smiled guilelessly. "I should not be surprised, Grandmother, that you know these things."

"And well you should not be," she said, approaching him. "What one tree knows, all know. We speak to each other with the wind and in the earth. We cannot hide secrets from ourselves."

Peter noticed, in the distance, Edmund and Oreius exchanging glances. Likely they wished to involve the trees in the messenger network. He gestured, briefly, for them to hold the idea for later. Both nodded.

"We can hide secrets from you, little man-thing," the tree-crone said, not unkindly, coming near enough Peter to touch him. This close, she seemed astonishingly small, although that meant nothing; likely her tree was enormous with age. The top of her woman-shaped head did not quite come to Peter's shoulder. "That is why you have come to us, although you had no need. We know what you want, and we will get it for you." She circled Peter as she said these things, studying him from all sides, and if this action unnerved Oreius the good General did not let it show. "But your new brothers do not believe, eh?" She had completed her circuit and once again faced the young King. "They do not think we know better than they what is wished."

"They do not," said Peter, "and as we know nothing about this at all, we thought it best to meet you and discuss what we need."

"Discuss," she repeated. "Discuss." She made a sound that, in a being more human, may have been a snort of laughter. To Peter it sounded like the groan of a heavily weighted branch. "Words are not precise." And then, speaking in the Old Language: "Even words such as these." She took his hand, then, in both of her own, lifting it close to her face and turning it, to view both sides. "Neither could you make an image for us, that we would need." She let his hand drop. "But we do not see in the same way, you and I. Some of us can no longer see at all." She reached both hands to Peter's face. Peter slouched, as much as possible, so that they could more clearly see eye to eye. He noticed, fleetingly, that her hands seemed to have many more fingers than they ought, and that these twig-fingers were both thinner and longer than anything he would expect.

The tree-crone cupped Peter's face in her hands, her thumbs – many of them, on each hand – brushing along his cheekbones, and her multitude of fingers tangling themselves in his unruly hair. His face was now level with hers, and he noticed that her eyes were milk-white and dry, not unlike eggshells. He reached towards the unusual eyes, and stopped his hand halfway.

"You see," the tree-crone said. "We do not see as you do."

"Not all of you, surely," Peter blurted. "I've met—"

"And sure you have, little one," the tree-crone said. "The older we get, the more lost we are. There are some older than I – you think me old, but beside them I am a sapling – who are lost entirely inside themselves."

"Is it part of the curse?"

"What else could it be?" the tree-crone answered. "What else would do this to us? And you seek to undo it."

"I will do everything I can," Peter said, thinking back to his experiences with the Sea-King and, bizarrely, the bickering pack of Dwarfs in his bedroom. He fought back a smile.

"Yes," the tree-crone said. "Things you did not expect. Things you have never experienced." She laughed, then – a truly alien sound, from so old a tree-spirit – and nodded at Peter. "The sons of Earth are young. They do not have the wisdom of the stone they work."

"Stone spirits?" Peter asked. He had never heard of such a thing.

"To speak with them is slow going, even for us. You could not manage it," she said dismissively. "But that is unimportant, now. Show me what it is that you want."

"You already know."

The tree-crone's fingers, some of them grass-thin, were whispering down Peter's face, urging him to close his eyes even as she more securely grasped his head. "Show me, as a tree speaks to a tree."

Peter, who had trained to various disciplines, privately doubted that he had the ability to order his thoughts to stop entirely on one thing. Especially now, with the distracting patter of the tree-crone's hands on his face and the rustle of wind in the leaves.

Behind his closed eyes, he imagined the drawing of the _ketch,_ and from there his mind flitted elsewhere – the arguing Men and Dwarves in the planning-room - the healers working with the battle-wounded - most horribly, a flash of the endless boneyard on which the Witch's castle had been sitting - Lucy's look of surprise as he pulled the flask from his boot – he thought of Tumnus then, reading to Lucy in the garden – Tumnus deep in the grip of the Phorbas-fear, shouting nonsense about the Holly King – Susan, lit by firelight, looking up from her embroidery to ask a question – the black book, a secret known only to Peter, in which he wrote the names of the dead – Edmund laughing and passing his face over his hand as they trained in the practice yards – Edmund's look of grim determination as they rode to battle so recently – Edmund, hurt and bleeding, run through by the Witch's wand – thinking Edmund, please, Aslan, somebody, I can't see this, where is Lucy, I can't be seeing my brother die here, Lucy has the potion, he came back to us, he should have gone home, this is my fault – the boneyard again, on his knees by Oreius, his own thoughts again, this is my fault, I should have known, should have stopped her somehow – Ordilan mute and silent in the room in which he'd first been kept, and again the thought that he had done wrong, that they should have looked harder, that this man had every reason to ignore him as a king – Aslan standing in a dark room, his eyes heavy with sorrow, asking Peter what else he would have done, and Peter thinking anything, anything, anything--

Peter realized that the fingers on his face were brushing back tears, and that he had unburdened himself to her in a way that he never had, with anyone else.

The tree-crone released the young King, then, and bowed, deep and graceful. "We will give you what you need, child," she said. "Come with us."

* * *

HI THERE HOW ARE YOU GUYS? I've not given up, and I won't until I'm done, although life has gone completely stupid crazy and I've been hard pressed to keep up with... well, much of anything that is Fun. If you're still out there and still interested, I'm both delighted and thankful. I can't promise when the next update will be, other than Sporadic, but it will come as soon as it is able.

--

_On all that blah blah frickity blah:_ I realize I've come back with about sixty metric shedloads of exposition. I hope it works. There's a lot of world-building I snuck in there, because I wanted to share the Narnia inside my head with you guys. Like the stuff about the trees being farmers. It's harder for me to write exposition than dialogue – notice I always have characters tell each other about things, than tell you myself? In this case, though, that would have taken forever; Ordilan and Irlian getting agriculture lessons from Ed would be sixteen boring chapters, with – as Jack says – all the interruptions added in. If anyone _did_ want to hear about the Narnian uses for hemp and flax, I apologize for skipping them.

_On water drums:_ these exist, and are commonly used in African music. They are fantastic. Hit Google up, if you're curious, or YouTube – there are a few videos out there. They're made of gourds, not wood, but Dryads being Dryads, wood makes sense. There's also a thing called water-drumming, which involves striking the water itself, usually while you're in it. That's South American, I believe. If we ever meet Naiads, we'll get to see them at it. Yeah, Ed would have a blast in a hippie drum circle.

_On Peter's brain-dump:_ I promise I won't do that again. That reads, in retrospect, like a Zelazny-esque hellride, minus the chutzpah. I don't really know how else to write the effect of a telepathic old tree lady rummaging through one's head, though.

_On boats, and what a ketch really is:_ I know nothing about boats. I went about this all backwards. I had a picture of a boat in my head, and then went to Wikipedia to figure out what to call it. Keels would have taken our heroes much more time and wood to construct, and since all the docks are gone they'd have had to load it with boats, the way the _Dawn Treader_ was dealt with on uninhabited islands. Nobody wants to put Oreius in a rowboat, so flat-hull it is. My imaginary Narnian boat is part scow and part junk, with two masts and square sails. The Wikipedia picture of the 13th century Song Dynasty junk is very close to what I had in mind: that one's more barge-like. And you better believe the Narnian sails got decorated that heavily. Ketch is a name for a particular junk rig arrangement that uses two sails. As for names, don't get your hopes up: probably Ed is going to say something narky that sticks and we'll all be sailing off to Galma on the Overgrown Bathtub.


	20. The Felling of Trees

_In which we are treated to a sight previously unknown and told the oldest tale in the world._

* * *

_"Let me tell you a story that was old by the time Edward of Narnia first heard it. It is one that was not forgotten, in the dark cold winter, after the Humans were banished from the land and the land was lost to the world. Rather, the forest-folk – steadfast in their memories, always – kept the story alive. This story is older than Edward, and older than his fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers, for it is a story about the beginning of the world._

_It is the story of Aslan and the Stars and the Trees. It is the story of life in Narnia, and how the world remembers what it is. If it is ever forgotten, the Talking Trees will perish by iron and fire, and all of Narnia will disappear into darkness."_

--

"It is a holy thing that we do. A sacred thing." The Dryad crone turned her head, glancing at the ground (which she seemed to wade in, perhaps needing the secure feeling of the earth) and away from the watchers. "The mute trees are our brothers and sisters, although they cannot speak. Aslan made us from them."

Edmund, thinking suddenly of nights spent heaping wood into fires for warmth and comfort, shuddered.

The tree-crone noticed his discomfiture and laid a hand on his arm. "It is not as bad as that," she told him. "They are like the crops we tend, these trees. The forests do not grow wild, except on the edges. We decide when trees will grow and where, as you would decide the placement of herbs in a garden. It is merely hard for us to hurt something which so resembles an aspect of ourselves. We are reminded, by the likeness, that they are as alive as we – and that all life deserves respect."

"An important lesson," Peter said. "Were you to deny us our request, after telling us that, we should not walk from this place empty-handed."

She smiled at Peter, inclining her head in acknowledgement of his gratitude. "But we will not deny it. Some of these were seedlings in the time of Queen Swanwhite, and have stayed strong even through the long winter. But they are not Talking Trees, and they know their part in the world."

"Their part?" Peter repeated. That sounded horribly final.

"Everything has a length of life, child," she said gently. "They know this, though not in ways that you or I do. But they know. It is well, that they will go for this thing of yours. Come," she said, turning towards the darker forest and extending one bushy hand.

Peter reached out, and the crone took his hand in hers; he felt the twig-fingers twining around his wrist and up his arm like vines. He thought, with a jolt of misplaced amusement, that Oreius would not like this much, as a tree had suddenly grown onto his King. He glanced at Oreius and shook his head: _do not disturb this thing between us._ The Centaur nodded, though he remained tense.

The tree-crone, who had noticed the communication between King and General, glanced at Oreius herself: their eyes locked, and then Oreius glanced down and backed minutely away from Peter.

"Come," she said again to Peter, and when she moved forward he followed.

--

_"In the beginning, of course, the Lion sang the world into life. This much we know. This has been written, and told, and retold – yes, even in worlds other than this one, for of course there are other worlds. You may not think it is true, you may not be able to hold the shape of it in your mind, but you must _believe_ it, all the same._

_As the humans tell it, Aslan sang a song, and the Stars sprang into life in the sky. They sang together, the Lion and the Stars, and under that light the world was formed. This, of course, is what everybody knows."_

--

The wood through which they walked seemed strange even to the party from Cair Paravel, which by nature had grown accustomed to all manner of unusual things. It reminded Peter of the currents at the bottom of the sea, and the ancient booming voice of the Sea-King. It reminded Edmund of the strength he felt in the very air, when the Witch's winter began to melt. It reminded Ordilan and Irlian of the stories of the dragon which had bedeviled the Galmans and burnt the settlement to bare stone. It reminded Susan of the sheer impossibility of Aslan, who had been dead and was now alive, and how neither canceled out the other, but reaffirmed to her that the Lion was something else, something different, something bigger than the world. It reminded Lucy of dear Tumnus, feeling the weight in his head of poor demented Pan, and the darkest parts of the curse. She shivered, drawing close to Susan, who put a soothing arm around her.

--

_"When the Sun came up, on that first day, the Humans say the Stars went quiet. They did not. They turned with the sky. You are confused? Imagine the world, child, as a flat piece of paper held between two bowls. One bowl is the realm of the Sun, of day. The other is the realm of night, with the Moon and Stars. The world holds still, and the skies move around it. Day follows Night, endlessly._

_But where were we? Ah, yes, the Stars. They were not quiet. They sang their song, on the other side of the world – and what is there? Nobody knows, save Aslan, and as we know he will not tell you something that is not a part of your own story. It may be that, someday, Narnians will learn what lies at the bottom-most parts of the world."_

--

"I've seen something like this before," Susan said to Edmund, in a whisper, as they walked. Something about the place commanded silence. "Something from – Back There."

"I have too," he said.

"There were trees as big as this, I think, in America someplace."

"These are bigger," said Edmund, not bothering to hide the awe in his voice.

"They are."

Ahead of them the tree-crone and Peter walked hand in hand. The other tree-spirits had mixed in with the Cair Paravel party, which unsettled Oreius. The warrior in him was uneasy at having so many unknowns mingling with those he was sworn to protect, but the wild woodland side of him knew, instinctively, that these spirits could do no harm.

Besides, they were singing.

The working-songs of the Dryads accustomed to other life – the woodland folk, the Humans in Cair Paravel – had been changed, somewhat, so that those who heard could understand. The songs of the deep-forest spirits were different. Their voices were different, too; some of them sounded like things of nature, like the groan of branches in a strong wind, while others sounded like nothing more than children – but strange, shrill children that could not possibly be human. It was a beautiful sound, but for all its beauty something was wrong.

It was the sound of the deepest forest, but the deepest forest was sick with enchantment.

--

_"So the Stars sang, in their shroud of night sky, away from Narnia. Do not think they were sad, to be turned away from the face of the world so quickly. Stars understand many things, child; they are never lonely, for they have each other, and together they dance across the dark face of the sky._

_The Stars have the Moon, and they have each other. They also have the winds: the north wind and south, the eastern and west; Boreas and Notus, Eurus and Zephyrus; messengers all, soaring in the cold high parts of the sky. So it is that the stars sing to the winds, and the winds carry their song across the face of the earth. It is not a song but a story: the story of the existence of life."_

--

It sent a chill down Edmund's back, the sound of the wild tree-spirits singing. It was the sound beneath the melodies, the ache of limbs under mountains of snow. It was the story of the Witch and all she had done.

One of the Dryads insinuated itself at Edmund's side – it was so wild he could not tell its gender, if it had one – and took his hand as they walked.

"You know our pain," it said, "more than the others."

Speechless, Edmund nodded.

"You were once enchanted as we were."

"I was," he said, trusting his voice to say no more. Deep in his throat he tasted Turkish Delight and a steaming drink from a silver cup. He cast his eyes to the ground, and focused on good things: his sisters' laughter, Peter teasing him in the training yard, the remembered sound of water-drums.

But the singing continued, and Edmund, who had felt the same enchantment, felt it more deeply than the others. He knew that he walked, and he knew that the Dryad held his hand tightly, but that was all he knew of himself.

Later on Edmund could only explain that he'd seen what it was to be a tree, the way the Dryad crone had seen in Peter what it was to be a king. Peter had understood, but admitted that he'd had a bit of a fright when his brother's eyes went white.

Edmund was the trees, and the trees were the world. They touched in the air and in the ground; their roots and branches tangled together and in that way they embraced. They listened to the sharp, fast sounds of the flying animals, little flickers of life, nearly too bright and fast to sense, under a turning sky of sun and moon. They drank deeply of the sunlight, and made life inside themselves. They tasted the wind, and with it the scents of a thousand other places – of the rest of the world.

The trees knew the shape of the world, the size of it, the things that crawled and walked and flew and swam it. They knew of the rise and fall of small things: the workings of the forest-folk, and of the animals, and of the Humans.

They felt beneath them, and within themselves, the steady slow song of the rock on which the world was built. They felt the world itself, a circle within a sphere of sky – for remember, Narnia is a _flat_ world. The stars danced closer to it, and then further away, and the trees could hear the faint singing of the stars. They knew it all: the currents of the air, the dance of the planets, and the light of Aslan's country, beyond the end of the world, beyond the sky.

Edmund did not know that he had joined the song. He knew nothing but the cool tilt of the sky, sun and then moon and sun again, endless and constant and certain, and the security of ground under his feet.

(Miles away, safely tucked into bed, Tumnus in his madness broke into song, and nobody knew why. Siana the wood-nymph smoothed his hair back from his brow and noticed that his eyes had turned milky white. Cloudstrike rested a large hand on the nymph's shoulder and felt anew his failings of long ago.)

--

_"When the trees rustle in the wind, child, you hear only leaves. This is not your fault. You cannot hear the trees' song. Not all of the woodland folk can, for the closer they get to Civilization, that peculiar thing Humans create to tolerate each other, the harder it is to hear the sounds of nature._

_When the stars sing to the wind, and the wind to the trees, and the trees to the sky, they sing the song of the birth of the world."_

--

At a point – though remembering, later, nobody knew precisely when – the Dryads moved to the edges of the group, and then forward. The trees there were massive things, dark and enormous, gnarled and heavily hung with moss. The Dryads had fallen silent, and so had the waiting Narnians, who seemed disinclined to push past the line of Dryads at the front of their party.

The Dryads moved to the trees, and then _into_ the trees, as Dryads do; dozens of them swarming into and up the thick tree-trunks. Edmund followed with them, until Peter's hand on his arm stopped him; when he looked at his brother his eyes were milk-white.

"Ed?" Peter whispered, close to panic. Whatever had happened to Tumnus, thought Peter, was the same thing hurting the trees, and he would not allow it to hurt his brother, although he did not know how to fight it.

"Peter?" he whispered, closing his eyes and rubbing across his face with the heel of his hand. When he looked back at Peter, the enchantment had gone. Ed was Ed again, thought Peter – his eyes were normal. "I saw it," he said quietly. "I saw the whole world, the way the trees do. The way she saw you." Edmund turned his arm and clasped his brother's hand. Neither let go.

The Dryads began to sing again. This was a different song, and while it still sounded like loss it did not sound like pain. Rather, it was the feel of the completion of things, of endings and the beginnings that come after. It was the way seasons followed seasons, the way day followed night. The way life followed death.

As the Dryads moved in the giant trees, they creaked and moaned. And then – one of the Galmans leaped back with a shout – the branches began to fall from the trees. They fell until the trees were stripped bare, the trunks standing proud and straight in the half-light. Other Dryads moved these branches out of the way, easily, as though they had no weight. Perhaps wood is light, to a tree-spirit. Then the tree-trunks began to groan and sway, and one after another, they fell – lined up far more neatly than any Human woodcutter ever could have managed.

The Dryads returned to the piled branches. They searched them gently, collecting all the nuts and acorns and seeds that they could find. These were laid on the ground before the eldest Dryad, the ancient tree-crone, who plunged her many-fingered hands into the pile and whispered to them.

After some time, she beckoned, and the Human monarchs were led to her.

"When you make the graves," said the old crone, her hands full, "plant one of these in each. Someday they will save Narnia from a great threat – but Aslan will call them forth."

"We will, Grandmother," said Susan.

"Life comes from death, do you see? Now go home," she said gently. "You have seen something we have never before allowed others to see." She stopped, almost self-conscious (if such a thing is possible, for a tree) and smiled absently. "Of course you may tell this story. We will bring all of this to you, although you must shape the wood yourself. And when next I see you—" here she laughed, softly "—then I will _see_ you. It will be done. Now go home."

Edmund and Peter bowed. Lucy and Susan curtseyed. Then they turned and walked back through the crowd of Narnians they had brought, and without an order being given, all fell in line and left that place.

--

_"During the time of the Witch, when Narnia was split from the world, the Trees could not see, for they had been blinded; they could not hear, for they had been deafened. They sang the old song as best they knew how, with the hurt in it that had been done them by the Witch. They sang their song into the winds, and the winds carried it beyond the ends of the earth, and when Aslan heard this song he taught the Humans how to set things aright. Humans must always rule in Narnia, my child, because while trees remember, Humans _act_."_

--

"I've never heard the story like that," Tumnus said.

"You told it to me," Cloudstrike replied, "when you were singing."

* * *

Notes for Chapter Twenty.

This story is not dead! It doesn't want to go on the cart! Life is life, let's leave it at that; I don't know when I'll next update and for that I do apologize. In the meantime, share and enjoy – and if you're new to this story, do tell me how you've found it. I don't know much about Narnia on the internet, other than the fact that some very talented people write on this site. On to the cites & acknowledgements, which luckily are few this time.

_They're all lumberjacks and they're okay:_

I gaffled the clear-cutting scene from Orson Scott Card – the idea of sentient beings that can communicate with trees and cut them down when wood is needed. Also the idea of trees being sacred, in that nobody is allowed to cut them down. (Except the Dryads, natch.) Changed it up a bit, but any brilliance there is his and not mine. If you don't know what I'm talking about, get your hands on _Speaker For The Dead_, which is part of a series but can stand alone just fine.

_On things maybe being simultaneous:_

I like stories-inside-stories, and I like storytellers. Blame Gaiman. Jury's out as to whether Cloudstrike is telling this story after Tumnus stopped singing, or some time far in the future. Whichever way you want it to be is the right way. I don't mind.

_On wind:_

In Greek mythology (you remember the previous Author's Novella re: Why Anasti Prefers Greek For Narnia) there are four winds: Boreas the North, Eurus the East, Notus the South, and Zephyrus the West. They're all ruled over by Aeolus, who if we ever meet him would sort of function the way Pan and Oceanus do: rulers in their own right, but subservient to Aslan. Aeolus, by the way, gave Odysseus a bag of wind to help him get home. Maybe he gave Caspian one too.

_On grave-marker trees:_

Elecktrum had the idea of using trees as grave-markers, instead of tombstones. (Which would've been problematic, canonically, since I don't think anyone could really MISS a bunch of stones. It'd have been mentioned in Caspian as a landmark.) These trees do get called into action by Aslan later – but Lewis wrote that scene, not me.

_On the shape of the world:_

I'm imagining Narnia The Big Flat Place as similar to the painting on the outer panels of Hieronymus Bosch's "The Garden Of Earthly Delights." I don't think I can do links in here, so search Wikipedia for the title of the artwork -- you'll see the flat ball-world as the second image in the article. Thanks to Elizabeth Culmer's awesomely thinky review for reminding me of this.


	21. The Disposition of Captives

_In which a Wer-Wolf is fed, a Dwarf is prevented from urinating, the unseen scars from Curses are considered, and the Gentle Queen is perplexed by a new set of protocols._

* * *

It was truthfully said, in castle Cair Paravel, that while Peter was the High King, his sister Susan was perhaps the real ruler of things. It is widely known in Narnia that behind every strong Male stands a stronger Female telling him what to do with that strength – and often to keep it away from the good furniture. The four royal monarchs were siblings and not mates, but the sentiment stood, especially amongst those who personally knew the Gentle Queen.

The faun Valios was a firm believer in this theory. As chamberlain of Cair Paravel, he reported directly to the Gentle Queen, who had taken the castle and all its workings as her own personal domain. Susan, much like the rest of her family, refused to stand on ceremony with those Narnians she considered friends.

Valios never failed to give his Gentle Queen a piece of his mind, when he felt the need. Nor could it be said that Susan desisted from doing the same. Both believed that a true friend would not stay quiet in the face of foolishness. Unfortunately, each often thought the other to be a fool. Those who knew them theorized that they argued for pleasure, although nobody dared ask neither Queen nor Faun the truth.

When they argued, they did so quietly and conversationally; one would have to listen to the words, rather than the tone, to know the difference. Susan, relaxing on a divan in a sitting-room with the windows open to what light came from the east – for the strange darkness in the sky had not faded – privately wondered whether shouting would be easier. She often wondered that, especially when she knew Valios had a point. Or as the Dwarfs say, when he had her over the barrel.

"You can't think you can get a monster to speak with a few pats on the head," is what the determined Faun was trying to impress on his queen.

"It worked for Ed," Susan said. "I do not understand your complaint."

"His Majesty your brother made a dangerous gamble," said Valios. "Ordilan turned out to be a good man, not a Wer-Wolf."

"Have you looked at her?" Susan asked. "Have you gone down there and had a good look?"

"I have only heard what Ameia said this morning in council, my queen," said Valios. "We are fortunate that she is young and ill-fed; had she been at her full strength she would have done much more damage."

"You're imagining a monster," said Susan. "I went myself, and I saw a terrified girl who can turn into a terrified wolf."

"Precisely my point, Lady," Valios said. "Monsters. There are Beasts, and then there are monsters. We have reason to be wary."

"I will not condemn someone for what they are," Susan said.

"Every time I wake, my Queen, I am thankful for that fact," Ordilan said, bowing in the doorway. "You had need of me?"

"I wasn't expecting you so quickly," Susan said. "Please, be seated – Valios, will you send for refreshment?" Valios nodded and hurried away.

Ordilan took a seat on a thickly padded ottoman – placing his head, Susan noticed, below hers. "What will I do for you?" he asked, pre-empting any politeness Susan may have been preparing to offer. The Galmans were plain-dealing, Susan was well used to that by now. This Man's strangely formal manners in her presence were unexpected, although this was not the time to discuss them.

"I've had an idea about the Wer-Wolf," Susan said. "And I think I need your help."

"My life is yours, Lady, though I doubt you will need my few skills," said Ordilan, bowing his head. "You disarmed me quite handily, and I've no skill for diplomacy."

"Nonsense," Susan said, smiling. "You were half-dead from hunger and exhaustion, and I had a broadsword. It's hardly a fair test."

"A man half dead is half alive," Ordilan said, "and should still have his wits about him."

"My brothers would agree," said Susan, "but I think there is a notable difference when good food and good rest are added to the situation."

"As you say, my Queen," Ordilan said, more by reflex than agreement. His fingers flicked up to touch a reddish line on his throat: a mark, likely to scar, left from when Susan had disarmed him with her broadsword. "It appears I could learn a thing from you."

"And I from you," Susan said. "I'm told that you shattered the exact center of a knifeboard. Turned it to splinters, if I'm remembering Ed correctly."

"An idle hobby, underground," Ordilan said, shrugging dismissively. "We had not the materials to make bow and arrow, so we learned to hunt with throwing knives. What has this to do with a Wer-Wolf?"

"That is a different skill of yours I need," Susan said. "You are quite the storyteller, and right now I need information."

"I fear all of my information of Narnia is a hundred years out of date," Ordilan said.

"True, but Beasts do not change," Susan said. The creak of an opening door reintroduced Valios, who conveyed disapproval, curiosity, and tacit support with a single eyebrow. Valios placed the tray on a table, bowed, and exited the room.

Susan turned back to Ordilan. "What do your tales say of Wer-Wolves?"

"If your plan is what I suspect, my Queen, you may require my arm after all," said Ordilan, lifting said arm to pour the wine. He poured his own cup first, tasted it, and then poured for Susan.

Susan noticed this and filed it away. She'd always liked puzzles.

-----

King Peter, to the surprise of his usually more organized brother, had created a list of important points to address in the morning's council meeting. The first problem: a sizable raiding party had come from nowhere. The second: it had done considerable damage to a Narnian army envoy which was hardly ill-guarded, and later had the strength to damage a Narnian military unit. The third: nobody knew how the first two things had been accomplished. The fourth, of course, was that the three prisoners were not inclined to shed any light on anything.

Castle Cair Paravel did not technically have dungeons. At least, not in the sense of secure rooms below ground level which were intended for long-term imprisonment. It had an extensive cellar that was used for storage, most of that food or fuel, though a few rooms kept jewels, armor, and other treasure. It was also where most of the Dwarfs in residence stayed, as they were uneasy sleeping above ground.

There were a few secure rooms in the wing used as a hospital, on the off chance that patients would need to be confined for their own good. When word had come in that the army was returning with captives, all of those rooms had already been put to use. The two Dwarfs and the Wer-Wolf, then, were kept in storerooms that had been hastily converted for the purpose.

The disposition of the captives from the Battle of Stormy Wood had been a particularly thorny problem that morning in council; the Narnians agreed that the captives needed to speak, and the captives would do nothing of the sort. At the end of the meeting, there were many ideas offered, but none that were guaranteed to work. Edmund, bolstered by his recent successes with the Galmans, had struck upon the idea of approaching the captives himself. Peter, half protective and half unwilling to allow Edmund to attempt something he did not, insisted on going along.

Thus it was in the long dark corridors of the castle cellar that the two Kings were found, bickering in a friendly way to cover the uneasiness they refused to admit they felt at the idea of turning any part of their home into a dungeon, no matter how temporary, or at the idea of enemies being held within the very walls which sheltered them.

"Let me see if I understand this," Peter said, lifting a torch from the wall.

"We have time, brother," Edmund grinned.

Peter thumped Edmund over the head, which elicited a scowl.

"If this is the only way that you can think, I can send for Oreius," Edmund offered, aiming a kick at his brother's most royal knee.

"Better him than you, he knows not to aim for my head," Peter grumbled. "But just to be sure I've got this clear, the dwarf _pissed_ on Ameia?"

"They had him shackled to the wine-rack on the far wall," Edmund shrugged. "The chains were loose enough for the Dwarf to open his breeches."

"The far wall?" Peter asked. "That's – what, ten arrow-lengths?"

"At least," Edmund said. "If you spent half the time that I do in the barracks you'd not be surprised by this."

"Dwarfs," Peter grumbled fondly, the Red brothers of Blacktree still fresh in his mind. "Sometimes I don't know what Aslan was thinking."

"To keep us humble, brother," Edmund grinned.

"And remind us of our own weaknesses? Aren't the Giants for that?"

"Oh no," Edmund said casually. "Giants can match an arrow's flight when they've had enough grog. Besides – none of them would do that to _Aslan._ He probably finds it funny."

Peter chuckled. "And this rig the Galman set up – what is his name?"

"Androlus."

"Androlus, yes. Good man, I've spoken with him. Isn't it odd to say that? It took me a year to stop using the word on anyone but you, and now I have to start again." Peter shook the errant thought away. "He fixed iron rings to the ceiling and fed an exceptionally long chain through them?"

"Just so," Edmund said. "The door opens in, so you stand behind it and pull the end of the chain. It tightens across the ceiling and lifts the blighter's hands up from his—" At a cough from his brother, Edmund re-evaluated what he was going to say. "Out of harm's way. And then you fasten it to a hook."

"Ingenious. Won't it lift him off the ground entirely?" Peter asked.

"They had to play with it to ensure it wouldn't," Edmund said. "They put a bolt in the chain so it can only be pulled so far. The ring isn't wide enough for the bolt to go through. That was something to see – Ruchabrik offered to be the dummy, since we can't go lifting prisoners by their wrists. He made a game of it."

"Ruchabrik?" Peter asked in disbelief. "Wish I'd seen that." Ruchabrik was typical for a Black Dwarf: he professed no time for nonsense or silliness, and despite that he possessed a peculiar sense of humor. It was somehow unsurprising to learn that he and Edmund had become friends. Their fondness of gambling, Peter was sure, had something to do with it.

"As do I, brother," Edmund said. "He kept telling me to pull harder. He said if I was any kind of King at all I'd get his knuckles to the ceiling."

Peter barked a laugh. "Did you?"

"Think you these arms are for show?" Edmund asked, pressing a hand to a young, but not unimpressive, bicep. "He was very proud until the chain slipped and I dropped him. Hurt my hands and his dignity, but you know his arse didn't feel it." Edmund tapped a thick pair of leather gloves tucked into his belt. "I'll be needing these, my hands are still raw."

"I will," Peter said, deftly snatching them and tucking them into his own belt, one-handed. "I'm going to speak to this one."

"You already have," Edmund said. "Remember? He's the one who you spoke with on the way home."

"I'm not likely to forget that," Peter said. "The way he spoke gave me chills."

"He reminded me of Ginarrbrik," Edmund said, shuddering. With a little shake of his shoulders, he pushed the memory away – or tried to. Something lingered.

"Then you'll not mind my examining him in your stead," Peter said. "You can have the other – the quiet one." He raised a hand before Edmund could mount a suitable protest. "We've had listeners on him day and night. He doesn't say a thing when he's asleep, either. Of the two of us, you're the man to crack a silence." They turned one last corner. "Ah, Sergeant Ceron."

Ceron, the Satyr guarding the cell, slid from a chair (likely purloined from one of the upstairs sitting-rooms: it was upholstered) and stood to attention. He shifted his spear – a sharp, functional thing, not like the beribboned weapon Ardons held upstairs – to his shoulder and held his rough hands out in greeting. "Sires."

Peter, holding the torch, clasped one of Ceron's hands; Edmund took the other. "How is the captive today?" Peter asked.

"Oh, the same," Ceron said dismissively. "Told me that if he got free he'd chop my mother down, build a bonfire out of her, and then put it out by pi—"

"We get the idea," Edmund said hurriedly.

"What _is_ it about this Dwarf?" Peter asked. "No – I'm not sure I want to know."

"Only weapon he has left to him," the Satyr shrugged. "Are you both going in?" he asked.

"Just me," Peter said. He waited as Ceron took the key from a heavy chain around his neck and unlocked the door. Ceron slid the door open, took a quick glance inside, then pulled it shut again.

"Seems as docile as he ever gets," Ceron said. "Sometimes he'll fight against the chains."

"Shame he made them necessary," Peter said, shifting the torch again. "Ed, take this, will you?"

Edmund took the torch and fitted it in an empty bracket on the wall. With a complicated series of glances and gestures, Ceron urged him to take the upholstered seat. Edmund did so, slinging a leg over the chair's arm. Edmund glanced back up, and after another silent conversation of eyebrows, he slipped a handful of dice from his belt pouch. The Satyr grinned.

"Ceron?" Peter asked, pausing in the doorway to put the gloves on.

"Yes, Sire?" the Satyr replied.

"I never thought I'd feel the need to ask this, but – just out of curiosity – how far can a Dwarf vomit?"

-----

"How do you remember all of this?" Susan asked with frank admiration – and perhaps a pardonable touch of jealousy, considering the recitation she'd just received.

"A thing of necessity, when you live underground," Ordilan said. "We'd no easy way to make paper, so we couldn't copy the books we kept as often as we'd needed. They are fragile, and some are damaged. I can't recall who first raised the idea of memorizing what is in the books, but it isn't ours. It came from the mainland, or so I'd been taught."

"It has," Susan agreed. "In some parts of the forest, stories can only be told, because then they are alive in the teller. If they're written down in a book made of paper, it's as though you're putting them to death."

"By putting them inside a dead thing," Ordilan mused. "That does make sense. On the whole, though, I'll be in favor of books."

"I'd invite you to explore the library, but it's in pieces at present," Susan said apologetically. "When it has been restored, you're welcome to it."

"Aye, I heard of that," Ordilan said. "And of what you found within. Was a good idea to do that. We've stories of things being hidden here – I don't remember any myself, though others back home might."

"I'd like to hear them," Susan said. She smiled at the thought. "We can tear the rest of the castle apart when we've returned from Galma."

"Mind, you'll have to pry me from your books first," Ordilan said, amused. "Though I won't be much help in copying them – with paper scarce, we learned our letters by scratching in the dirt. I can read, but only slowly, and my hands are more accustomed to weapons than quills."

"We've enough hands for that," Susan said. "I'll make a formal invitation, if you'd like – so long as you don't ask for a camp cot to be put in the library. Ed would want one, and then he'd never leave."

Ordilan laughed. "Nay, Lady, I'll sleep in a proper bed. It's a luxury, still. But back to this Wer-Wolf—" here Ordilan smiled, a startling thing in his scarred face "—what were they like in your world?"

"We didn't have them, at least that I know of," Susan said, thinking. "There were – stories – about them," she said, choosing her words with care. Nobody in this world understood the idea of movies, no matter how carefully their monarchs tried to explain. "Ed would know this better, but as I recall, a Wer-Wolf was an ordinary person who'd been bitten by another Wer-Wolf. It traveled like a disease. I think they only became wolves on the night of the full moon."

"Well, you've no need to worry about that," Ordilan said. "Everything I know of them says that they're born as they are, and shift at will."

"Do you know anything about their society?"

Ordilan shook his head. "I know that they hunger, and that they are unnaturally strong. Our knowledge of them is as hunters – or, more likely, trying to avoid becoming the hunted."

"It's enough for now," said Susan, "and a relief to know that poor thing isn't a cursed Human, somehow."

"That poor thing – or one like it – maimed two of your soldiers before it was caught," Ordilan reminded her. "And one of Irlian's, as well. Talipas may never regain use of that leg."

"I thought you knew," Susan said. "It's been seen to. Lucy used her cordial."

"I thought that was for emergencies."

"I daresay saving the life and livelihood of a member of a lost people counts as an emergency," Susan chided gently.

"Of course, Lady," Ordilan said. "I confess – I still am expecting that this warm welcome will somehow run out."

"It won't," Susan said, rising from the divan. "We specialize in warm welcomes. Now – shall we prepare one for our Wer-Wolf?"

"A cold one, I think," Ordilan suggested, opening the door for Susan. "That's what your Wolves said she seemed to prefer."

"Cold it is, then," Susan said. She cast about outside the room, and found who she sought. "Valios? We're going to take some food down to the Wer-Wolf. Do you know if there's any fresh meat in the kitchens?"

"There is, Majesty," Valios said. "A pig was slaughtered just this morning." Valios glanced at Ordilan, who looked startled. "Do not be surprised, Man. It was a pig, not a Pig. We keep dumb animals for meat and leather."

"Mmh," Ordilan said, processing this information and dismissing it. "I'll be needing a blade as well."

Valios glanced meaningfully from the imposing man to Susan, implying that he would agree and thus overrule his queen if she did not capitulate.

Sensing defeat, Susan sighed. "You do remember Freki telling us that the girl's done nothing but show her belly, do you not?" she asked Ordilan.

"You know the stories I know, Lady," he said firmly. "I'll not have it on my throat that I was in a place to protect you and failed."

Susan nodded to Valios. "Meat for the Wer-Wolf, and whatever weapon this Man requests."

"Two long daggers, balanced for throwing if you've got them," Ordilan said.

Valios nodded, then called two small songbirds from a nearby tree. They conferred for a moment, then with a swing of his arm Valios launched the birds, who went in separate directions.

"If you make your way to the cellars, Majesty," said Valios, "these things will be brought to you."

"Thank you, cousin," said Susan, embracing the Faun.

"You should mind him," Valios said, before releasing her. "If he's an eye to your safety, I'm in favor of it."

"Nothing bad will happen," said the Queen. "I'm sure of it."

-----

Peter stepped out of the room with a rueful shake of his head. Edmund stood and accompanied his brother down the hall, while Ceron closed the door and locked it.

"No luck?" Edmund and Ceron had played a rather perfunctory game of dice, much preferring to listen to the interesting argument that had erupted in the holding-room. Even that was a distraction to the lingering memory – there was something elusive that Edmund felt he should remember.

Together the brothers walked in silence through a few twists, and finally Peter stopped to turn to Edmund.

"For all he's saying about our mother, he might as well save his breath," Peter said tiredly. "It's not much of a threat to say you'll do something to a person who isn't in the same world as you." He slumped down on a rough wooden bench in the hall and tried to untangle his hair from his crown. "Not that the blighter understood what I was trying to say. Wouldn't let me get enough words in edgewise."

Edmund barked a laugh and sat next to his brother. "Do you want help with that?"

"No, you'll bruise me."

"Su's been on you to cut it. You should listen." Edmund snorted. "If the other Dwarf isn't talking either, I think we need to get some kind of expert in here to talk to them."

"Hmm," Peter said, picking at a particularly difficult tangle. "We don't have experts on this, do we? We've never had captives off the battlefield before."

"Think he'd speak to another Dwarf?" Edmund asked.

"Why didn't you think of that before?"

"I thought I'd save it so you could tell everyone tomorrow and look good," Edmund said, and then grew serious. "Think he'd speak to me? The Trees knew what I'd – been."

"Ed," Peter said, somewhere between warning and reassurance. This could perhaps have been more convincing had he not just found a twig in the tangle. At any other time, Edmund would have teased Peter about being after the Dryads again. That he let it pass showed Peter, more than anything else, how serious Edmund was.

"It's all right," Edmund said. "I'll not pretend it didn't happen. The Trees knew, though I don't know how. If this Dwarf is still enchanted as the Trees are, don't you think he'll recognize me the way the Trees did?"

Peter looked carefully at his brother, remembering many things: the pitted eggshells of his eyes when the forest curse had momentarily overtaken him; the unnatural flush on his face in the Beavers' lodge during that long-ago dinner; the sight of his body motionless and bleeding on the field of battle, his life leaking from the stab-wound left by the Witch's wand.

"I could not ask this of you," Peter said. "If you are marked, there may be danger in it."

"Then it's a damn good thing you're not asking," said Edmund, his shoulders set. "I'm telling you what I'm going to do."

-----

The guard outside the Wer-Wolf's room was a rough, sturdy Oak dryad. He did not have a name, not exactly; many of the wilder tree-spirits only adopted spoken names out of convenience. Trees have their own way of communicating, and names are unnecessary to them.

"Good choice of a guard," said Ordilan, nodding at the Oak. "I'm not sure whether they can smell living blood or not." He shifted the basket on his arm: it contained several shanks of meat. Susan, to be fair, had carried the jug of water herself, dismissing all protests. Said protests had come from Valios, who followed behind the pair after personally seeing to the knives.

"Good day, cousin," said Susan to the Oak. "We've come to bring food to the Wer-Wolf. How does she fare?"

"I wouldn't know, Majesty," said the Oak. "She's been quiet. I've heard her scratching around a bit in there, but that is all."

"As wolf or girl, can you tell?" Ordilan asked.

The Oak shook his head. "I've not the nose for that." He took the key from its long chain – looped around his wrist, not his neck – and unlocked the door. Inside there was a scuffling noise.

Ordilan stepped between Susan and the door. "If she attacks, I'd prefer it to be me," he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Susan nodded. "I'll take that, then," she said, reaching for the basket. "And you stay here, cousin," she told Valios.

Thus unburdened, with both hands on his knives, Ordilan led Susan into the room. He needn't have worried; the young Wer-Wolf was curled in her pile of blankets on the floor, her back to the wall. She trembled violently. In woman-form she looked about Susan's age, with tangled hair and a dirty face. She wore no clothing, except for a peculiar scrap of string twined around her ankle.

"The poor thing," Susan said, softly.

At the sound the Wer-Wolf shrunk in on herself, then shifted to her wolf-form. Ordilan held a hand in front of Susan and took another step forward. The wolf whimpered, turning in her nest of blankets, and showed her belly.

"Don't," Ordilan said. "I don't trust it – she may be waiting for you to get close."

"That is quite enough," Susan said, setting the jug and basket on the floor. "Freki and her mate sniffed all over her, and Calio checked her for injuries. She didn't attack them. She won't attack me."

Ordilan sighed, pulled a knife from its sheath, flipped it in midair, and caught it by the blade. He offered it to Susan, handle first. "If you must," he said.

"I must," Susan told him, taking the knife and tucking it into her belt.

Susan opened the basket and brought out a small hunk of meat, not worrying about any mess it would get on her hands. It was, indeed, very fresh – the bloodiest she could find. Liver, the butcher had said, was best for starved Beasts. She approached the wolf slowly, speaking softly, trying to get the creature accustomed to the sound of her voice.

"You're about half-starved," she told the Wer-Wolf, "and I'll not have that in my home. This is my home, you know, that you're in. Most of it is much nicer." The Wolf, still on her back, eyed Susan carefully but otherwise held still. "I'd like for us to be friends, for it to be your home too. The Lion knows, you've been through enough already, and so young."

Any irony present in Susan telling a girl roughly her own age that she'd 'been through enough' was lost on Susan, but Ordilan made a small noise in his throat. Susan glared at him, then turned back to the Wer-Wolf.

"I've brought you some fresh meat," Susan said, stopping about two paces away from the wolf. She cast about and found the large metal pan that had been brought down as a feeding-dish. "I'll place it here for you, so that it won't stain your bed." She did that, then glanced at the torn blankets. "Any more than it already is," she amended. She glanced over her shoulder at Ordilan, who merely raised an eyebrow.

The Wer-Wolf, still on her back, watched the piece of meat with interest.

"The trick, dear," said Susan, "is that I'm going to stay here. I'd like you to stop being afraid. I'd like to speak with you." She settled herself on the ground and moved the metal pan closer to the wolf. "I can wait," said Susan. "I'm very patient. But I want you to eat, and then I want to speak with you."

For a length of time they waited this way: Susan kneeling on the floor, the Wer-Wolf on her back in the shredded nest of blankets, and Ordilan a few steps away, tensed for motion. Something had to give, Susan knew, and she was determined that it would not be her, though her knees ached on the stone floor.

Eventually, the Wer-Wolf rolled to her side, keeping her limbs close to her body and her tail tucked between her hind legs. She glanced at the meat, then at Susan, and whined placatingly.

"You can have it," Susan said, "but I'm not going anywhere."

The Wer-Wolf whined again. She laid her ears back and yawned widely, keeping her eyes anywhere but on Susan. Submissive signs, Susan knew.

"It's all right," the Gentle Queen said. "You can have it. I won't hurt you." She nudged the pan closer to the frightened creature, who shrank into herself at the scrape of metal against the stone. Susan waited further.

The Wer-Wolf flattened herself on the ground, her legs beneath her, tempted by the fresh smell of meat. Inch by cringing inch, she stretched herself to the pan. Susan held herself as still as she could and waited.

Finally the Wer-Wolf's jaws closed on the meat. She shrank back into the corner and made quick work of it, watching Susan with careful darting glances as she ate. When she was finished, she licked her muzzle clean – though some mess had got on her forehead – and watched Susan carefully.

"Can you be a girl now, for me?" Susan asked. "We've more meat for you, but we can't talk, you and I, when you're shaped like this." She held her hands out, palms up, fingers waving slightly. "Oh, I hope you know what I'm asking, or I'll feel an idiot. Please, sweetheart."

With a strange shifting ripple – a hard thing to explain but impossible to forget, once one sees it – the wolf became a girl. She scooted away until her back was against the wall and sat there, knees tucked to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She shivered. Susan could not tell what color the girl's tangled hair was, under the dirt and grime. Her face was bloodstained – which, Susan supposed, was to be expected after her meal.

The girl was breathing heavily, and it took a minute for Susan to realize that she was also speaking. Whatever it was, Susan couldn't recognize it.

"I don't know what you're saying," Susan said. "Don't be scared."

The girl kept her eyes fixed on the floor, speaking in a whisper-quiet monotone.

"I understand it," Ordilan said quietly. "It's the Old Language."

Susan tried not to startle; in truth, she'd forgotten the Man was there. The wolf-girl had not forgotten. She shrank even further into herself.

"She says she's sorry," Ordilan said, "and she hopes we kill her quickly." He fell silent for a moment, listening.

Susan blinked against the sudden sting of tears in her eyes.

"That's all she's saying," Ordilan said. "I'm sorry," he repeated, as the wolf-girl spoke. "I'm sorry. Please kill me quickly. Don't send me back. I'd rather die than go back. I'm so sorry."

* * *

_Short notes this time, mostly smooshy gratitude._

Before anything else: a big huge army-sized shout-out to **rthstewart** for all that idea-slinging and help and poking me with sticks. You are amazing.

More army-sized shout-outs (and a few masked men) to **Elecktrum**, whose ideas from _years ago_ are starting to come into play here.

I admit to stealing from these two geniuses as well. I've picked up several ideas about Edmund from **Elecktrum**: one being that his contact with Jadis left him somehow marked, and the other being that he is of a general disposition to get along well with Dwarfs. If you haven't read "Black Dwarfs, Blue River" yet, go – it's brilliant. **Rth's** fics have taught me about the innate _animalness_ of Narnian Beasts, and it's a lesson I wish I'd learned earlier. Again, both of you, thank you.

I also wish to perform a general Hey You're Awesome shout-out to the fabulous ficcers at NFFR. That's Narnia FanFiction Revolution – google it for more delicious discussion and fic than you'll know what to do with.

And to everyone else: Whether you review or not, whether I ever speak to you or not, just know that I hope you're enjoying this. Yes, you. If you're reading, I mean you. A story's useless without an audience. Thank you for being one.


	22. Bathing, Feeding, and Marking

_In which there is badness in us all, a bath is given, clan-marks are discovered, gambling is proven useful, and a dumb goat meets a swift demise._

* * *

He had been quiet, quiet for hours. Lucy, refusing to be anywhere else until she had to be, installed herself in the sickroom with a thick sheaf of drawing-paper one of the Galman engineers had given her. Tumnus spent most of his time sleeping, which Cloudstrike and Calio both said was necessary. When he was awake he was agitated, speaking quickly, sometimes in English and sometimes in the Old Language; Lucy and Siana learned that the best way to keep him calmed was to tell him stories until he relaxed and drifted back off. Tumnus slept deeply, though not quietly, and occasionally spoke in his sleep. Sometimes the sound of his voice woke him, and sometimes it did not.

Today it did.

"The Holly King," he shouted, sitting bolt upright and gasping as though he'd been underwater. "Oceanus. Father Time. I can feel them – they're everywhere. They're asleep, all asleep. Wake them up!"

Lucy dropped her pencils and ran to her friend, taking his hand. "How? I don't understand."

"See to the parents," Tumnus said. "Rest and tribute. Honored dead. I should be of them. A martyr instead of a traitor. That's what everyone would have thought."

"I don't understand," she said, frightened.

"They'd never know. You'd know, but you wouldn't tell. You think such good things. Better a dead hero."

"You're scaring me," she said quietly.

"I'm scaring myself." His voice softened as he came back to himself. He looked intently at Lucy. "I don't know what is wrong with me. You should go before – before I say anything worse."

"What can be worse?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Things you shouldn't know. I won't give that darkness to you. Things before you came – this was not such a beautiful world, then."

"You think I don't know about how war makes everything ugly? You listen to me," she said hotly. "Remember I told you about London and the war, and how we went out to the country?"

"And the wardrobe," he nodded.

"Mum didn't want us to go. She said if the city was safe for her it was safe for us. And then the bombs started. The Germans would fly over the city at night – there were alarms, to tell us. When we heard them we had to go underground, so the bombs couldn't hurt us. Peter had to go back because of Ed. Ed wanted the picture of Dad in his uniform. It was a big picture. He had it taken before he left. He said he didn't want us to forget what he looked like. I'm starting to. I can't remember if he looked more like Peter or like Ed."

"I can remember my father now," Tumnus said. "But it's all wrong, because that wasn't him."

"They went back for the picture," Lucy said. "And they got it. They barely made it back to the shelter. One of the bombs." She sniffled. "Landed."

"What happened then?" Tumnus asked.

Belatedly, Lucy remembered that she'd never quite managed to get Tumnus to understand what a bomb was – overall a good thing, but right now it complicated her story. So she skipped ahead. "Peter and Edmund were shouting all the time, and so was Susan, and so was Mum, and all I could do was cry. When Mum sent us to the country we were still horrible to each other. I would have been horrible back to them but I didn't know how. I didn't know what to say. I was too frightened." With some effort, Lucy trained her eyes on her friend's face. "I know how war can make people act bad even if they're good. It happened to us. It wasn't until we got into Narnia that things got better."

"There's no convincing you, is there?" Tumnus sighed.

"No. Because if we're still good, even after all of that, you are too. No matter what you did."

He squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Lucy Pevensie. But now I think I should rest. It comes and goes. I'm sorry for anything I've said."

"I wish I could understand it," she told him.

"Oh, that's all right," he said, sounding for one moment like his old self. "I don't understand half the things you've told me. Ask Cloudstrike about it. He knows this better than I do."

"Are you going to be all right?"

"I hope so," said the Faun, letting go of Lucy's hand and turning away to burrow into the blankets. "I don't really know."

"Isn't there anything I can do?" Lucy asked, forlornly, but Tumnus did not reply.

"Come along, child," said a deeper voice, and Lucy turned to see Cloudstrike standing behind her, his gentle face solemn. "We should speak. Siana will tend to him."

--

"Stop," Susan said, somewhat sharply, to Ordilan. "Please. I can't – I don't want to hear any more of this. Can you tell her to be calm?"

"I think I'd frighten her if I came closer," Ordilan replied.

Susan shifted herself close to the Wer-Wolf, who stilled when the Gentle Queen embraced her. Susan noticed that the wolf-girl did not embrace her in return, but quietly allowed herself to be held. Susan smoothed the tangled hair away from the girl's face, murmuring softly. "Shh, there, shh," she said. "I can't talk to you, but he can." She looked up at Ordilan. "Will you tell her what I say?"

"Of course."

"Tell her that since I cannot speak her language, you are going to tell her what I say."

"Might need to tell her to shut up first," Ordilan said, as the wolf-girl muttered to herself.

"Oh, all right – but gently, will you?"

The Galman nodded, then moved closer to the wolf-girl. She struggled, but Susan held her still. Ordilan crouched on the floor, closer to Susan and the wolf-girl, but still a respectful distance away. Still ready to attack if needed, Susan noticed.

_"Stop talking,"_ Ordilan told her, in the Old Language. _"Hold still. We have heard you. The woman does not speak your tongue. I will tell you what she wishes to say. Do you understand?"_

The wolf-girl stilled and fell silent, watching Ordilan. _"Yes,"_ she whispered.

"She's listening," Ordilan said.

"Ask her name," Susan said. "Tell her mine. And yours, if it will help. Just my name, don't confuse her with titles."

Ordilan glared at his Queen in such a way that made it perfectly clear he disliked this whole business and would rather interrogate the Wer-Wolf at knifepoint, but he did as he was told. _"What are you called?"_ he asked in the Old Language.

_"I—"_ The wolf-girl looked away. _"I do not understand."_

_"Your name,"_ Ordilan tried. _"She is called Susan. I am Ordilan. What are you called?"_

The wolf-girl shook her head. _"There is no word for me."_

"She doesn't have a name, Lady," Ordilan said.

"Tell her we won't hurt her," Susan said.

_"You will not come to harm here,"_ Ordilan told the wolf-girl.

_"Why?"_ she asked.

"Wants to know why," Ordilan grunted. "I'd like to know too."

"If you will not be helpful, you may leave," Susan snapped. The wolf-girl flinched and tried to pull away. "No, sweetheart," Susan said, holding her tighter and petting her hair again, "not you." Susan looked up at Ordilan. "She's such a wild thing, and so scared."

"And she can pull a man's leg apart," he muttered.

"And _you_ can put a dagger in a heart at fifty paces," Susan countered. "We'll not hurt her because we do not hurt our captives. Ask her why she was fighting."

_"Why did you fight in the forest?"_ Ordilan asked.

_"My pack fought,"_ the girl said.

"She's not one for explaining herself," Ordilan told Susan, before turning back to the girl. _"When your pack fights, must you also fight?"_

_"If I did not they would kill me,"_ the wolf-girl said.

"If she didn't fight with her pack, they'd kill her," Ordilan said. _"Did you want to fight?"_ he asked the wolf-girl.

_"No,"_ she said. _"I am weak. But we were called."_

"Says they were called," Ordilan repeated. _"Who called you?"_ he asked the wolf-girl.

_"We were called,"_ the wolf-girl said. _"We don't see. We just know. When we are called, we must fight."_

_"And if you didn't fight, your pack would destroy you?"_ Ordilan asked. _"Why?"_

_"We would be weak if I did not,"_ the wolf-girl said. _"They would kill me so that she would not kill them."_

_"Who would kill the pack?"_ Ordilan asked.

_"She,"_ the wolf-girl said. _"She who calls us."_ She shook her head, agitated. _"She owns us. She made us. We must do as she says."_

"My Queen," said Ordilan, "were you told what the dwarf told your brother the King, when they came in from battle? The dwarf said that his people were summoned by one they called the Queen of Air and Darkness."

"The Witch," Susan said, involuntarily pulling the wolf-girl closer.

"She tells me they were called to fight by someone, and it sounds similar," Ordilan said to Susan, indicating the Wer-Wolf with a tilt of his head. "Might be the same. Nobody comes to give orders, mind. They know they have to go, and then they go. She fought because her pack would kill her if she did not. Seems her entire pack would be destroyed for her weakness if she didn't fight."

"That's horrible," Susan said. "Tell her she's safe here, now. Tell her that witch doesn't own her."

Ordilan nodded. _"Susan wishes you to understand that – she who called you – cannot harm you any more. You are freed of her."_

_"Then who do I belong to?"_ the wolf-girl asked.

--

In another holding-room, not too far away, there was only silence. Peter stood in the doorway, with the hall-guard behind him. Edmund stood in the center of the room, stock-still, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. The silent Black Dwarf, who looked much older than the shouting one, sat on the stone floor, watching Edmund. He had not been able to look away from Edmund as soon as the young King had entered the room.

Nobody spoke. They merely waited: two Human brothers and a Dwarf, each waiting for the other to do something. They had been waiting for some time.

Peter could see the tension beginning in the back of his brother's neck, the tightness in his stance. He came to a decision, considered it, approved of it. "Ed," Peter whispered, coming up to touch his brother on the shoulder. "I've an idea."

"Mmh?" Edmund asked, not taking his eyes off the Dwarf – who did not favor Peter with so much as a glance.

"You talk to him here," Peter said. "I'll go get – your idea."

"Yours," Edmund said. "Ruch?"

"Who else?" Peter replied, voice soft.

"Do it," Edmund said, still keeping his gaze fixed on the silent prisoner.

When Peter left, Edmund advanced on the silent Dwarf. Said Dwarf had also been shackled to the nearest strong object – in this case, an iron bracket mounted to the wall, for holding torches. Edmund walked around the silent Dwarf, taking in his appearance. He looked old; the black hair of his tangled hair and beard was nearly overrun by steely grey and white.

Then the thing happened: as the Dwarf gazed steadily at Edmund, his eyes widened in a flash of recognition. Edmund knew he had never seen the Dwarf before in his life. He also knew this meant he was correct, and he dearly wished he wasn't.

The Dwarf schooled his features back to placidity. Edmund squatted on his heels so that the two were at eye level. He studied the Dwarf's face intently. Thick eyebrows, a mole on the cheek, a crooked nose that looked to have been broken once or twice. Edmund counted to himself as the Dwarf breathed and blinked: both were as regular as clockwork. The Dwarf may well have been a statue.

Everyone has a tell, Edmund knew. This was the first thing he'd learned, gambling with Dwarves in the barracks – well, the second thing, after they'd cleaned his pockets and damn near taken the clothes from his back. The third, if you counted which ales were better than others. But everyone has a tell. Everyone reacts somehow.

Everyone save this silent Dwarf, who could have cleaned the entire military legion of Black Dwarfs out in two hands of cards with his stone-still face.

"I was once her creature," Edmund said, "and you know it."

Blink. Inhale.

"Jadis," said Edmund. "The White Witch. The White Queen. I ate and drank of her enchantments. I was once as much her a creature as you are."

Blink. Exhale.

"I broke her wand with my sword," he told the Dwarf. "She stabbed me, but I did not die."

Blink. Inhale.

"The Queen of Air and Darkness is dead," said King Edmund, "and I am free."

Blink. Exhale. Nothing.

--

Susan, from her vantage point on the floor, was aware of many things. She could feel the wolf-girl shake inside the protective circle of her arms. The wolf-girl was filthy, and frighteningly thin, and her skin felt warm to Susan's touch although she shivered. As the wolf-girl spoke, Susan saw Ordilan turn from tense to curious. She did not understand the thing Ordilan said before scrubbing a hand across his eyes, but she assumed it was a curse.

"What is it?" Susan asked.

"She wants to know who she belongs to," Ordilan said.

"Nobody can own her," Susan said. "She's a free being. She owns herself."

Ordilan shook his head. "I think this is the wolf in her, my Queen. 'Who' can be one soul or many. She was part of a pack, and now the pack is gone."

"Oh," Susan said, thinking. "We haven't any other Wer-Wolves allied with us. Do you think the Wolves here would take her in?"

"They might," Ordilan said, relaxing enough to sit cross-legged on the ground. "They might not. I don't remember hearing that Wolves and Wer-Wolves ever got on. I must apologize, my Lady. You were right about her." Ordilan smiled, or tried to – the scars pulled his mouth into a vicious smirk, but by now Susan knew the difference. "She is little more than a frightened child."

"One who can defend herself quite ably when under threat of death," Susan conceded. "Thank you for your concern."

_"Please,"_ the wolf-girl whispered, looking up at Ordilan.

_"Do you have a question?"_ Ordilan asked her.

_"Why does she restrain me?"_ the wolf-girl asked.

This, more than anything else she'd said, told Ordilan what the wolf-girl had experienced. "Oh, the poor child," he said. Then, to the wolf-girl, _"She is not trying to restrain you. She holds you to comfort you."_

_"Oh,"_ the girl said, thinking for a moment.

_"Does it help?"_ Ordilan asked.

_"I am not hurt,"_ said the wolf-girl, laying her head on Susan's shoulder. _"She is warm. She smells like a flower."_

Ordilan chuckled. "She thought you were holding her down. She's never been held for comfort before, I don't think."

"I can't imagine what she's been through," Susan said, stroking the wolf-girl's matted hair again.

"I'm not sure I want to – a weakling in a camp of Wer-Wolves controlled by the Witch. She likes the way you smell. Like flowers, she said." Ordilan seemed amused.

"Do you think she would let me clean her?"

"I think she wouldn't understand why you'd want to. I don't think she's ever had a bath."

"Neither do I," said Susan, wrinkling her nose, "but we must all start sometime. Ask her, will you?"

_"The lady wishes to know if you will allow her to wash you."_

_"She may do with me as she wants,"_ the wolf-girl said softly. _"Only – prey would smell me, if I smelled like flowers."_

Ordilan barked a laugh, and the wolf-girl cringed.

"What did you tell her?" Susan asked.

"It's what she told me," he said. "Prey will smell her coming, if you perfume her."

"And they hunt, you said?" Susan asked thoughtfully.

"Are you thinking of a bribe?" Ordilan asked.

"Nay, sir. I think of a reward," Susan said, narrowing her eyes.

_"Would you rather hunt or eat meat that we bring you?"_ Ordilan asked the girl.

_"I would hunt,"_ the wolf-girl said.

"Very well," Susan said, when Ordilan repeated this for her. "If she'll let me bathe her, we'll give her a hunt. Tell her that, and that if she agrees we'll have some other people bring things into the room."

Ordilan did this and the wolf-girl relaxed, slightly, in Susan's arms.

"She agrees," Ordilan said. "I'll call Valios." He rose to his feet, stretched, and tapped on the door to call for the chamberlain.

When Valios came in, he looked surprised, and then pleased, and then tried to cover both and look as though he wished to remind Susan that this had all been a dangerous gamble which could still go wrong.

"Enough of that, cousin," Susan said. "I'll need some warm water, sponges, and soap. And a comb."

Valios nodded. "Do you wish for clothing as well?"

"Doubt she's ever worn any," Ordilan offered, leaning against the wall.

"What of a cloak?" Susan asked. "She looks like an ordinary Human when she's in this shape. It'd be a bit of a startle to my—to others, I think." Let it be said that Susan is ever the diplomat. Let it also be said that "brothers" sounds remarkably like "others," and neither Ordilan nor Valios mistook her meaning.

Valios nodded again. "I'll see to it, Majesty," he said, then left.

"I could take her up to the bathing-room, but it might be too much for her," Susan told Ordilan. "Best to keep her here for now, I think."

"I think you're right," said Ordilan, with a note of cool approval.

Cleaning the nameless Wer-Wolf took the better part of an hour. Her hair was a hopeless wreck, so Susan clipped the mess short and combed out what was left. Susan re-appraised the wolf-girl, once she was cleaned. She was thin, with jutting ribs and hipbones, but that would be easily fixed with plenty of food and solid exercise. Her face tended to plainness rather than prettiness, and scars from old bite-marks and claw-marks marred her skin. It was enough, thought Susan, to see her clean and happy. She almost looked like a normal girl, and Susan was sure she'd never had the chance to be such a thing.

"Tell her to come with me," Susan said, holding out a hand, "and we'll get her something good to eat."

--

The Dwarf Ruchabrik was a Captain in the Narnian Army, the general overseer of the military company of Black Dwarfs, and, most bafflingly, one of only two Narnian subjects who would speak freely to King Edmund whenever he so desired, with whatever language he chose. (The other, of course, was Phillip.) The pair, King and Dwarf, shared a fondness for ale, gambling, and innovations in the field of profanity – which explained things perfectly well, to Peter.

Peter briefed Ruchabrik on the situation as they made their way down to the holding-room. They said hello to the Satyr guard Nolios, who knocked twice on the door. A moment later, Edmund emerged. They stepped a bit down the hall so as not to be overheard by the silent Dwarf.

"Hello there, Peter, Berk," Edmund said conversationally.

"Hello yourself, prat," Ruchabrik muttered. "How's the prisoner?"

"Captive," Peter corrected.

"Still quiet," Edmund said. "It's the damnedest thing. He knows I'm there, he watches me, but he won't respond to anything." To Peter, he nodded minutely and raised an eyebrow: _I was right._ Peter did not respond, save for a certain hardening about the brow.

"Captive?" Ruchabrik asked.

"We do not have a prison, or any other facility for the keeping of beings against their will for lengths of time," Peter said. Then, dropping his kingly tone, "If you don't have a prison, you can't have prisoners."

"Ehng," Edmund said, understanding Peter's sentiment but not fully believing it.

"Call it what you want, Sire," Ruchabrik agreed. "He's the one chained to the wall an' can't get out. Looks a prisoner to me."

"I've had an idea about that, actually," said Peter. "Once we've spoken to these captives – or un-magicked them, if that's what needs doing – I think the thing to do would be to return them to others of their kind."

Edmund nodded approvingly. "I like the sound of that. Ruch, what say you?" (It should also be noted here that nobody, save for Edmund himself, could _ever_ refer to Captain Ruchabrik by such an informal name – not without severe consequences.)

"Might do," the Dwarf grunted, considering. "You'd have to find clans as would take them. The Dwarfs are behind you, Sires, but we take to changes slow, and you're still new by our reckoning. Some clans don't fully trust you yet. I can think of some that do. Whether they would take these strangers, though, that's something else."

"What if we could get them to tell us who their clans were?" Edmund asked. "Wouldn't it be good to send them home?"

"Assuming they didn't go to the Witch willingly," Peter pointed out. "Might turn from imprisonment to a death sentence, that way."

"There's a clear way to find out where they're from," Ruchabrik said. "If I can have a look at the devil, I can tell you. I was seeing to the other when your Majesties called for me – he'd nothing."

Peter nodded, then led his brother and their captain back to the guard Nolios, who opened the cell door and let them in.

The silent Dwarf sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall, his eyes steadily fixed in the middle distance.

Ruchabrik studied the prisoner for a moment, nodded to himself, then pulled a knife from his belt and strode across the room. The prisoner noticed this but did not react.

Peter, however, did. "Hold," he commanded, and Ruchabrik stopped immediately. "What are you doing?"

"I don't recognize him myself," said Ruchabrik, turning to face his Kings, "but he's old enough to remember times before the winter."

"So you're going to come at him with a knife? He's bound and unarmed."

"He is right here in the room," Edmund said uncomfortably.

"He isn't talking, so we'll just talk about him," Ruchabrik said. "I don't have a mind to hurt him, Sires."

"Then what on earth are you doing?" Peter asked.

Next to him, Edmund nodded with a sudden realization and went "Ah." Peter glared; Edmund held a hand for his brother to be quiet.

"No," Peter said. "One of you will explain this before another step is taken."

"You know how every clan has a mark, right?" Edmund asked.

"I'm well aware of that," Peter snapped. "There are little black trees on every plate in my new armor."

"It's not just the things they make, Sire," Ruchabrik said.

"They mark the smiths?" Peter had never heard of this, and was wondering how his brother had. Time in the barracks, he supposed.

"My thick brother the High King," Edmund said. "Yes, they do. And the fighters, and the masons – every Dwarf of a clan. Though some use tattoos, most use brands."

"Tattooing's for cowards," Ruchabrik offered, with a toothy grin. "And Reds. Though the two ain't exclusive. A Dwarf gets a clanmark when he's proven himself in the eyes of the clan." What this involved, Ruchabrik obviously declined to say.

"What about the women?" Peter asked, still mulling this over.

"They get theirs the day their firstborn comes swearing into this fine world," Edmund said.

"Stronger'n any man, by far," Ruchabrik said respectfully.

"They always are," Peter agreed. "You want to check this one for a brand, then?"

"Aye, Sire," said Ruchabrik. "Then we'll know his clan, and can get them here to see to him. But since he won't move, I'll have to cut the clothes off him."

"Very well," said Peter. "Do this thing." He turned to his brother. "Ed, go see Nolios in the hall – see that fresh clothing is brought for this Dwarf."

"Aye, Sire," Edmund said, in a gruff imitation of Ruchabrik.

"Aye your arse," Ruchabrik snorted.

"Aye your own, Dwarf," said Edmund on his way to the door. "Still bruised, are we?"

"I'll bruise you," Ruchabrik muttered.

"'D have to catch me first, wouldn't you?" Edmund asked, exiting the room.

"Smartarse," Ruchabrik said fondly. Then, to Peter, "I doubt this one will do anything, but in case—"

"Take the chains and stand ready?" Peter asked.

"And he says ye can't learn," Ruchabrik said. Off a scowl from Peter, he quickly amended, "Not that I ever believed it my own self. Sire."

"Can we examine this Dwarf without the backtalk, sir?" Peter asked, slipping the gloves from his belt over his hands.

"Aye, Sire," Ruchabrik said. "Just hold tight to the shackles, there, and I'll see what I find." Peter did, and Ruchabrik set to cutting the silent Dwarf's sleeves away, the left arm and then the right.

"No marks there," Ruchabrik said. "Perhaps the chest?"

"Try the arse," Edmund offered, coming back in. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I've sent Nolios up to Dresthin to get new clothes for this Dwarf. I've got the key."

"Help me with this, will you?" Peter asked.

"With what? He's not moving," Edmund argued, but he donned a thick pair of gloves and did as he was told.

Under Ruchabrik's careful knife, the silent Dwarf's leather jerkin was removed. "Ah," Ruchabrik said. "On the chest here, Sires. Do you see?" Ruchabrik pointed to a mass of scar tissue on the old Dwarf's chest – the left side, above the heart.

"Looks like he tried to burn it off," Edmund said.

"Aye, he's a deserter of some kind," Ruchabrik agreed. "No mind – I can see the original mark well enough. That'd be Rockfall, it is, on the eastern side of the Shuddering Wood. They're a good enough sort – keep to themselves, but who can fault them for that? They're close to the bad woods."

"Have we any Dwarfs of Rockfall in residence?" Peter asked.

"Nay, Sire," Ruchabrik said, and then thought. "Least, I don't think we do. I'll send a runner around, find out for sure."

With that they left the silent, motionless Dwarf and exited to the hallway. Nolios had gone to find Dresthin, so Edmund locked the door, and then the two Kings and the Dwarf again moved further down the hall so as not to be heard by their silent captive.

"Ruchabrik," Peter asked, speaking softly, "do you think he understood us?"

"Why wouldn't he?" Edmund asked.

"Oh, aye," Ruchabrik said to Peter. Then, to Edmund, "When your brother the King came to get me we found a to-do over at the Wer-Wolf's chamber. Seems your royal sister has tamed it, but the thing only speaks the Old Language. This one's old enough to have known Narnia before the Winter. I'm sure he knows what we've said."

"But the Wer-Wolf didn't?" Edmund asked.

"Tis a strange thing," Ruchabrik said, "but that's the way of it. The Witch only allowed those in her service to speak the Old Language. I'm not sure why."

"It could give her claim a sense of legitimacy," Peter suggested. "The Old Language is Narnian, but English is from our world."

"Or it could divide the two sides," Ruchabrik offered. "I'd wager her goal was to separate them entirely. She didn't have time enough to complete the task."

"We should ask Cloudstrike," Edmund suggested. "He'd know."

"A solid plan," said Peter. "We should go find him. Ruchabrik, will you keep watch over this room until Nolios returns?"

"Yes, Sire," Ruchabrik said.

"If I'd asked that," Edmund grumbled, handing the key over, "it'd be _s'pose my lord King thinks I've nothing better to do with my time,_ and you know it."

"Hardly," Ruchabrik chuckled. "I do as my King bids me."

"But?" Edmund asked sharply.

"But the whole time I'd be thinking the whelp has been drunk to sickness all down my best chainmail, and I _still_ have to take orders from him."

Peter laughed.

"That only happened once," Edmund protested.

"Or the time you gambled away everything but your crown," Ruchabrik said. "An' I do mean everything but. Not that his gear's of any use to us, but a wager's a wager."

Edmund, for his part, only growled – a very Dwarfish reaction indeed.

"My King knows my jests mean no harm," Ruchabrik said.

"Good Dwarf, you know you may speak your mind with us. I feel that you are teaching my brother something important," said Peter, chuckling.

"What's that?" Edmund asked.

"Humility," said Peter, with an almost believable look of gentle benevolence.

"Look what you've started," Edmund said to a sniggering Ruchabrik. "The oaf's mocking me."

"Welcome to my world, brother," Peter told him, clapping a hand on Edmund's shoulder and leading him down the hall. "I've been meaning to ask you – in the Old Language, does 'High King' mean 'universal butt of jokes' or is there something particular about me?"

Behind them, the belly-laugh of the good vulgar Dwarf echoed in the dark hall.

--

Cloudstrike took Lucy by the hand. For Lucy, hand-holding with a Centaur was funny, as her closed fist could rest in their cupped palm, and a hand held by a Centaur inevitably meant a bit of her forearm as well. He led her upstairs, away from the makeshift hospital, and out into a small walled garden, where the sick enchanted clouds polluted what should have been lovely afternoon sunlight. With a groan and a creak of old bones, the Centaur settled himself on the ground. Lucy waited politely until he was seated. He held an arm out, in invitation, and she nestled herself against his side, tucked into the space between his bent forelegs and the front of his horse-body. She leaned her head against his man-chest and looked up at his face.

Cloudstrike laughed, softly. "I can see all of your questions, little one."

"Nobody's told me anything," she said, trying as hard as she could to sound polite and not petulant. It didn't quite work.

"I know, dearest – now I will tell you. But if you will allow me," he said – not sternly, but firmly, like a teacher – "I will tell you a story first, and at the end of it we shall see what questions you have left over."

Lucy nodded. "I worry so," she admitted. "It frightens me terribly."

"I know," Cloudstrike said, smoothing a large hand over Lucy's head. "I know. But listen – in the beginning, when Aslan called the land to life, there was already evil in the land."

"The witch," said Lucy, who'd heard this story before. (One should remember that in Narnia, story-telling is more a group activity than a recitation. Lucy was in no way showing bad manners.)

"Indeed," Cloudstrike smiled. "Had she not been there, well – who knows how things would be different? But she was, and so Aslan had to protect the land."

"With the apple tree. And the first Humans."

"Yes. But he left other safeguards as well. The Sea-King, Oceanus, was one. I believe your brother has met him already. He carries his favor."

"The knife?"

"Yes," said Cloudstrike. "Another is Pan, who protects the forest-folk. Pan, in those early days, was different. He was not the spectre our friend met that night. He is both himself and the forest, as Aslan is both himself and Narnia – do you understand, little one?"

Aslan was many things: once-dead and always alive, himself and his land. Lucy nodded silently.

"Here is where the true story ends and my own ideas begin," Cloudstrike continued. "When the Witch worked her curse, Pan was hurt, because of what he is."

"The trees," Lucy murmured, as she began to understand.

"Just so. You've heard Oreius say, haven't you, that once you leave the known ends of Narnia you are in an endless wood where things go wrong. That is how she removed Narnia from the world: with the trees. Oh, she did it with the ocean as well – Oceanus has been stuck on the sea-bottom since the false winter began, I'm told – but Pan was driven mad by what was done to the forests."

"And then he put it in Tumnus. Why?"

"Who knows why? I wonder if Pan himself knows what he is doing, or why. Beforetimes, Pan could cause madness, when he wore the self called Phorbas. But then, he only did it in defense."

"So Pan made him mad," Lucy said, angrily. "That's hardly fair. Tumnus did nothing wrong. He says he did, but I know he didn't. He saved me, when it could have meant his life. It nearly did."

"That is why he is our best chance to understand how to undo the curse," Cloudstrike said. "Tumnus has told me some of what Pan said to him – that he is a child of candlelight, not bonfires."

"He's not a forest creature," Lucy offered, thinking she understood.

"Just so. He is very intelligent, your friend. And – unlike Pan, or the other enchanted beings of the deepest forests – he is not wild."

"How does that help, if he's gone mad the way they have?"

"I doubt he will stay mad. I think that he will work his way out of it and understand what's been done, in a way that the rest of us do not."

"I thought you knew already," Lucy argued. "When we saw the oldest forest, I thought everyone understood it then."

"We think we know," Cloudstrike said. "What we think may be wrong. The forest is sick with enchantment. It cannot tell us its hurts."

"But Tumnus can?"

"Yes," Cloudstrike said. "Or, that is our hope."

Lucy was quiet for a moment. "Why are you telling me this? You should tell Peter and Edmund and Susan. Or Oreius. They'll know."

"They already do, child. I asked that they wait and let me tell you myself. Why do you think these plans have been set forth? Bringing the dead from the wreck of the Witch's castle is one part. Sailing to Galma is another. We are doing all that we know to remove the curse."

"And then Tumnus will be well again?"

"I hope so."

"What if he isn't? Calio said I can't use my cordial – wouldn't that help?"

"It should remove the touch of Phorbas, yes. But it would also take the forest voice from him." Cloudstrike sighed. "You must hate that we use him in this way."

"I don't want it," said Lucy with some resignation. "He's suffered enough. But I understand. I wish I didn't, and I could just be angry."

"He is stronger than you think, little Queen," said Cloudstrike. "So are you."

They sat together in silence for some time, and Lucy accepted the offer of a handkerchief.

"Do you feel better now?" the gentle Centaur asked.

"Yes," Lucy said.

"Good," said Cloudstrike, "because I believe that your brother the King is looking for us."

"Which one?" Lucy asked, sitting up and shading her eyes.

--

"I know it was my idea, but it still seems cruel to do this," said Susan, looking over the balcony at the small kitchen-garden where the dumb goat nosed through the grass. At the other end of the garden, the wolf-girl crouched nude, watching the animal. (Susan had only been able to persuade her to wear the cloak indoors.)

"It is her nature," said Cloudstrike.

"Oh, I know that," Susan said. "I know the Talking Beasts eat the dumb ones. It's different to see it happen."

"Not just the Beasts, sister," Peter argued. "How do you think meat gets on your plate?"

"I don't like seeing things die," Susan said.

"She needs a name." Lucy stood watching the hunt intently, with her arms folded on the stone balustrade and her head resting atop them. "I think we should give her one. It must be awful to have no name."

The girl shifted into her wolf body, steadying her feet beneath her. She scented the air, flexed her muscles, and focused on the goat.

"Lucy, you shouldn't be here," Susan said.

"I've skinned coneys to put over the fire," Lucy said calmly. "I don't have a problem."

"When did you do that?"

The wolf readied herself to spring.

"Mr. Tumnus showed me how," Lucy said, keeping her eyes on the wolf.

"Gone native," Peter whispered to Susan over their sister's head. He offered the grin that, he knew, would made Susan roll her eyes in exasperation.

Susan glared at Peter, then rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You're all – savages, is what you are."

It was over quickly for the goat, which had just enough time to let off a kick and one startled bleat before its neck was snapped. The wolf expertly turned her prey to its side and tore into its belly. They watched for a time, while below them the wolf ripped the organs from the goat's belly with obvious delight.

"Glendon," Edmund said quietly.

Peter turned to stare, brow furrowed, at the non-sequitur. "What?"

"Remember the film about the scientist who goes to India?" Edmund explained. "We saw it twice, you should remember. That was his name."

"Glendon?" Susan echoed.

"Glendon," Edmund said firmly.

"Film?" Ordilan wondered.

"I think they prefer the deep woods to glens," Cloudstrike offered.

"It's a kind of story," Lucy told Ordilan.

"It's not particularly ladylike," Susan said.

"Neither is that," Edmund said, gesturing.

Down in the kitchen-garden, Glendon the Wer-Wolf had shifted back to human shape. She sucked the marrow out of cracked bones with a look of contentment on her bloodstained face.

"You're going to have to wash her again, Lady," Ordilan said.

"Oh, hush," Susan said.

When the wolf-girl noticed the audience lined up on the balcony, she stilled. Lucy, ever friendly, waved. Glendon raised an arm and returned the gesture – hesitantly, as though this was the first time she'd done such a thing.

Perhaps it was.

* * *

_Annotations &c._

_On the Naming of Wolves:_ Glendon's name comes from Wilfred Glendon, played by the actor Henry Hull, in the 1935 movie 'Werewolf of London.' That inspired pretty much the entire werewolf genre, including one of my favorite songs. _I saw a Wer-Wolf with a Narnian menu in her hand, walking through the streets of Galma in the rain…_

_On the Connections between Gambling and Interrogation:_ it really is that simple. Everyone has a tell. You have to find it.

_On the Style of Dwarfs:_ Much of my take of the tone and temper of a Narnian Black Dwarf is due to **Elecktrum's** fantastic portrayals of them. Ruchabrik owes further characterization both to Tolkien's Gimli and a certain sake-swilling friend of mine who would probably be amused at the reference – after some insults and disapproving glares.

Thanks again to **rthstewart** for the spot-checks, idea-throwing, and Making Me Laugh 'Til It Hurts. 'Tis much appreciated, ma'am. Boom-de-yada!


	23. The Unimportance of King Edmund

_In which a King finds delight at sea, Dogs are serenaded, a Rhyme is shared, the Law of Peter is explained, a ship is saddled with an awkward name, and a newcomer suffers a linguistic mishap._

* * *

King Edmund's study had likely, at one point in the history of castle Cair Paravel, belonged to some sort of advisor. It was situated conveniently near the library, with its own passageway leading from the study directly to a sheltered alcove in the stacks. It also had a secret passageway which led to the lounge in Edmund's suite of bedrooms. Peter was the source of many lewd jokes in respect to that last fact, even once going so far as to offer to trade living space with his brother, because "I'd find it convenient, and you'd just find it a nuisance." Edmund pointed out the room led to the library, not to the forest, and that had fairly shut his brother up.

Despite the High Clod's jibing, Edmund liked the room. It had a lovely wall of windows, a large fireplace, and a little nook with a window seat. There were delightful tapestries depicting the hunt for the White Stag – a creature which could never be killed but, if captured, would grant wishes. The best, hung over the mantel above the fireplace, showed Aslan standing triumphant on a promontory of sea-washed rock as the waves broke about his paws. Edmund often fell asleep in the room, lost in reams of history or mathematics, and to this end the palace staff had brought in a comfortable sofa for the King to cat-nap on between missives.

Ordinarily, the room was one of King Edmund's favorite places in the entire castle. Today it was not. Today the room also contained a recalcitrant Wer-Wolf, and although she was being politely quiet, she was wrecking Edmund's concentration entirely. To be fair, she'd already wrecked it earlier with all the noise, and her present silence was an attempt to make up for the bother.

The one bright point of all of this was that the fuss and bother had happened without Peter. Edmund knew he'd hear about it eventually, but he hoped that he could put off anything involving Peter and Eventually for another few hours. He still needed to recheck the figures for how much food was needed to bring to Galma. Peter had sworn that he'd got it right, earlier, but Edmund didn't fully trust a sum until he had gone over it himself.

Edmund had nearly finished with the first stack of figures when he realized he'd forgotten to carry a six. He threw his quill down with a growl. This caused a scuffle and a curious whine to reply from the floor. The Wer-Wolf Glendon watched her King curiously, her dirty forehead and shadowed eyes peeping up from behind the other end of the desk.

Edmund noticed the motion and locked eyes with the Wer-Wolf. Neither blinked, and finally Edmund crossed his arms and dropped his elbows on the desk with a huff. "Is there something you want?" he asked, a bit louder than was strictly necessary.

The Wer-Wolf yipped – a strange noise, coming from a human throat – and ducked back down to hide behind the desk.

Edmund sighed and looked down at his sums, wishing that at least once, his Subjects Most Loyal would inform him of an Important Cultural Aspect before his foot had been well and truly Put In It.

The Wer-Wolf, meanwhile, peeked over the desk again. She found her new leader fascinating, and although she was not sure she understood the meaning of her name, she was delighted to finally have one.

Edmund gave up on his sums entirely. He rested his chin in a palm and stared back at Glendon. "What am I to do with you?" he mused.

Glendon offered no reply, but slanted her eyes away politely.

-x-x-x-x-

"Don't even say it," Peter said, adjusting his cargo with a grunt. "When I'm seventy years old I'll still be able to carry you on my back – and I still will."

Lucy, who'd demanded a ride, laughed and blew her tongue into her brother's ear – a _razzle,_ they call it in Narnia, and a rude but funny noise which is not entirely appropriate for a Queen, even if she is being carried about on her brother's back. "I think the ground used to be further away," she replied.

"I won't argue you're taller now," Peter said, hooking his elbows under his sister's knees. "There you go. Comfortable?"

"Very!" Lucy said with a smile. She wound her arms loosely around Peter's neck and rested her chin on the top of his head. His golden crown pressed against her throat. "It's not every day a girl gets to send a King for a gallop," she teased.

"It's only the days you ask for one," Peter rumbled good-naturedly. "Though you'd better not try to get taller than I am – then this won't work." A tail lashed against Peter's thigh, and a wriggling set of hindquarters bumped his knee. "Careful, cousin!" he called.

"Sorry, Sire," said a dog – one of many, as the Guarding contingent of the Pack of Paravel had taken to patrolling the path between the shipbuilding area and the castle itself. "It is funny when you make towers of yourselves, you Humans."

"We'd say that puts her in charge of you, Sire," another Dog chimed in.

"I would not disagree with that for a moment," Peter laughed, "under any circumstance."

"In that case," Lucy said, "how about a song? I know just the one."

Peter groaned – it was well-known in Narnia that any song involving Dogs would end in a cacophony of barks and howling. "As my lady wishes," he said, "but don't expect me to join in while I carry you." This was unfortunate, because it was also well-known in Narnia that the High King had difficulty carrying a tune in a bucket, and while the wilder Wolves took offense to that, the Dogs of Narnia appreciated even the most untrained voice.

"Lazy," Lucy chided. Below her the Dogs, in a happy swirl of tails and tongues, barked and clamored for a song. "All right," she said, laughing. "I've got just the one. But you," she said, tapping her brother on the head, "you speed up a bit, or I'll sing it wrong." Obediently, the High King set himself to a proper country march.

Lucy sang an old song, then – a Narnian dog-song, from the time before the Witch when Humans and Dogs had lived together in comfort, working farms and keeping dumb animals for meat and milk and leather. It was one of her favorites.

"As we walk down the country lane, I'll be singing a song, hear me calling your name," Lucy sang. "Hear the wind whisper in the trees, telling Mother Nature about you and me!"

The Dogs barked and howled along. They jumped over each other, tussled in the long grass at the edges of the path, and played keep-away with small sticks.

Lucy clapped her hands in time with Peter's stomping feet, and the dogs' barking was constant enough to not disrupt the rhythm. Peter laughed, and marched, and joined in after a time.

"My oh my," they sang, "la de la, come on now, it ain't too far—"

And then he and Lucy stopped, for they'd reached the last rise, and below them at the beach the ship lay gleaming in the sunlight. It was a half-finished thing, and the shipbuilders – Galmans mostly, but some Dwarfs and Fauns and Satyrs too – had only begun to build up the sides over the skeleton of the ketch. Around it the smaller Galman sailboats lay pulled up on the shingle, like chicks around a mother hen.

The Dogs quieted as they gathered around Peter.

"Well," Peter said, after a time. "That's a thing to see, isn't it?"

"Please," Lucy said seriously, "don't let Ed name it the Overgrown Bathtub. He says he will."

Peter snorted. "If he does it'll only follow him around."

Below, on the beach, the shipbuilders had noticed their mostly-canine audience. One man, seated on the wall by the half-finished deck of the craft, laid down his tools and held up an arm. "Ahoy!" he called, loudly. "We've been expecting you! It's a fine day to learn how to sail!"

"Fine day for a ride, too!" Lucy called back. Peter shifted her roughly. "Sorry," she whispered, as laughter rose up from the beach.

"The one problem with being a King," said Peter, turning his head to wink at Lucy, "is that I'm expected to be dignified." He picked his way down the dunes, winding around the Dogs and the thick clumps of beach-grass. "Good thing I'm not, I suppose, or I'd be angry with everybody and then we'd never get anything done."

"That's all right," Lucy said absently. "We're good at getting things done without your help."

"Oi!" Peter yelped, mock-offended.

The Dogs bayed merrily and led the way down.

-x-x-x-x-

Susan knocked on the door in her usual way: two short raps, then one, and a pause before two more.

"Su?" Edmund called, from inside.

"Brought you something," she said, turning the knob. "And I'm hoping you've finished with those figures," she added, shifting the basket in her hand and shouldering the heavy door open. Before she had the door open enough to peek into the room, she heard a loud crash and the sound of her brother's laughter.

"What is going on in here?" she asked as she entered.

"Oh, hello Su," Edmund said, quieting for a moment. He was seated with his chair tipped back alarmingly and his stocking-feet crossed over a heap of crumpled paper. "Is that lunch?"

"Yes, it is," Susan said, crossing the room to set the basket on the large wooden desk. "Where is your – Glendon, where is she?"

Edmund waved vaguely in the direction of his sofa, which had been turned on its back. "I think we're getting along," he said.

Susan glanced over, just in time to see Glendon pop up with a crumpled piece of scratch-paper clutched triumphantly in her fist. She grinned, a most alarming thing with her lengthened canine teeth.

"See?" said Edmund. "She's learned what smiling means."

Susan stared for a moment, before collecting herself and turning away. "Are you – you're not playing _fetch_ with the poor thing, are you?" Susan asked, pulling up a chair and digging into the lunch basket.

"And if I am?" Edmund asked. "She started it, anyway. I missed the can and she chased after it like a Dog." He shrugged "It's better than getting stared at." He whistled, short and sharp, and Glendon glanced up at him. He crumpled another rough sheet of paper, then tossed it behind his shoulder. Glendon dove after it, knocking over a hat rack in the process. It landed with a clatter that made Susan wince, though Edmund seemed unaffected.

Susan set the jar of preserves down and glared at her brother. "Feet," she said firmly, swatting at Edmund's toes.

"What's for lunch?" he asked, casually removing his feet from the desk and tipping his chair back down to the ground.

"Oh, I've brought her something as well," Susan said, pulling out a messy cloth-wrapped bundle. It turned out to be a shank of – some sort of meat, Edmund was not sure what – that hadn't been cooked. "Glendon?" Susan called.

Glendon noticed the meat and went very still.

"I think I'd better," Edmund said, taking the meat by the wrapped end. "You take this," he said to the wolf-girl, who'd edged close to the desk at the sight of the meat, "and go somewhere quiet and eat it. Not on the furniture, and not on the rugs, you do this on the floor."

Glendon tilted her head, blinking.

"There," Edmund said firmly, pointing at a nearby patch of floor with nothing on it. He pointed to the bone, then back to the floor. "Eat it there."

Glendon nodded in agreement, then shifted to wolf-form and snatched the meat from Edmund's hand. She took it to the appointed space and flung herself down, gnawing happily.

"Could say thank you," he muttered.

The wolf yipped, though with the meat in her mouth it sounded somewhat choked.

"It looks as though you've come to terms with things," Susan said, glancing about at the disarray in Edmund's usually tidy study.

"We're learning," Edmund said, cutting thick slices off the loaf of bread. "Why didn't Mum ever let me have a dog, Back There? It would have helped this. Hand me the butter, would you?"

"Here you are," Susan said. "Still, I am surprised. If anyone else found themselves the new leader of a pack of Wer-Wolves, they'd need some time to accept it."

"Is it a pack if there's only the one in it?" Edmund asked.

"Well, counting you there's two," Susan said, taking the sandwich Edmund handed her. "Ta."

"Welcome," Edmund said, biting into his own. "And I don't know," he said, somewhat thickly, "if two counts as a pack."

"Mmh," Susan nodded in agreement. "It's just you and a Wer-Wolf."

"A very loyal one, Cloudstrike says. I think I've got a bodyguard." Edmund glanced down at Glendon, contentedly gnawing her bone and leaving shreds of meat on the floor. "Whether I want one or not. And I'm not sure that I do, come to that."

"Peter will be pleased," Susan said. "He's always thought you need more protecting."

Edmund sighed theatrically. "If this sorts out he'll want to get us all Wer-Wolves. You know, if she doesn't try to kill Valios for knocking on the door."

"I heard about that," Susan said ruefully. "He's quite displeased."

"He and I both," Edmund said. "Cloudstrike gave her my orders on attacking anyone in the castle. He had her repeat it until she understood."

"What were they?" Susan asked.

"In a word?" Edmund said. "Don't." He shrugged. "At least, that's what I wanted her to do. But she wouldn't accept that. She thinks it's her duty to protect me. We came to a compromise – there's a phrase I'll say if I am in danger."

"What is it?" Susan asked, curiously.

Edmund glanced from the Wer-Wolf to his sister. "I can't _say_ it; she'll be at your throat."

Susan leaned across the table. "Whisper it. I want to know."

Edmund sighed again. "The things I have to do to keep the peace around here—" but he stood and leaned across the table. "If there is trouble," he whispered, "I'm to say _vakta mig._ Or just _vakta._ Don't—don't say it," he added nervously, while Susan considered the unfamiliar phrase.

"Old Language?" she asked, gracefully dropping to her seat. At Edmund's nod, she tilted her head, thinking. "How much of it have you learned?"

"Not as much as you and Tumnus, though I think more than Peter. Lucy – who knows what Lucy knows?"

"She's learned it by osmosis," Susan said, laughing softly.

"I'd not be surprised," Edmund said. "Where have they run off to, anyway?"

"Sailing lessons," said Susan.

Edmund groaned. "We haven't time for this, and Peter knows it. Not if we want to get the thing built and set off to Galma before the fall storms come in."

"You know and I know," Susan said gently, "that the best way to get there in one piece on that bathtub of yours is to stay well out of the way and let the sailors do what they do."

"Ordilan even said as much," Edmund sighed. "Why is Peter determined to learn how to sail?"

"Who knows why he does what he does?" Susan asked.

"Because the best way to understand any form of command is to do every job at least once," Edmund repeated dutifully. "Not that I disagree, mind – but we haven't the time for it. And those little boats are nothing like the Tub."

"Someone wishes he wasn't stuck at home with the figures," Susan teased in a sing-song.

"And with – with that," Edmund said, tossing his head sideways to indicate the happily gnawing Wer-Wolf. "You tell me – how was I to know that naming a Wer-Wolf means you've taken it into your pack? Nobody knows that!"

"Well, we know now," Susan said. "Not that we've got any others to worry about."

"If we ever do, have them named by committee," Edmund groused. "Or number them. Leave me well clear of it, one is enough. I haven't even got a pack."

"You could if you keep it up," Susan said lightly. "Speaking of names, you know Lucy's campaigning for a proper name for our ship."

"As long as it keeps her busy," Edmund said, "I don't care what she calls it."

Nothing made Edmund more cross than figures. He had a good head for numbers and enjoyed making sense of them, but in the process he was more likely than his unwanted bodyguard to snap without provocation. Susan privately thought that this was all a performance to draw attention to his skill. Do not disturb the genius, she thought wryly.

"Peter asked her along to get her out from underfoot," Susan said. "She's been up and down the Cair with a sheaf of notes, asking everyone who'll stop to listen what they should name the ketch."

"Any early contenders?" Edmund asked absently, scratching at a column of figures with one hand and balancing his unwieldy sandwich with the other.

"Not that I know of," Susan said. "Though she's keeping a count of how many people want to call it Bathtub, after that joke you made in council."

"I make one comment," Edmund grumbled. "That's what it looked like, you know, in that sketch."

"Of course it did," Susan soothed. "But you've got to learn, one of these days, that the things you say will stay with you. You are a King."

"I'm well aware of that," Edmund said, again tilting his head towards the Wer-Wolf. She had finished defleshing her bone and lay sprawled on her side, idly licking the floor to ensure she'd not left a drop of juices behind.

"They'll be back for supper," Susan said, trying to haul the conversation back to the reason she came in. "Valios tells me we're roasting a hog tonight. You know they'll be home in time for that."

"They baked a pig," Edmund mused happily. "Haven't had that in a – Susan?" For his sister had gone pale.

Susan looked directly into Edmund's eyes and then, with an exaggerated motion, skewed her view over his left shoulder. Edmund turned to follow the glance, and saw Glendon standing stock-still, her hackles raised and the beginning of a snarl playing along her wolfish lips.

"Aslan save me from idiot wolves," Edmund groaned. "I said baked a pig, not _vakta mig_."

The snarl turned into a growl, deep and threatening.

"Baked a pig!" he shouted at Glendon. "He baked a pig! Pig! You've eaten pork, and pork is made of pigs. I'm talking about supper, not attacks!"

"Ed?" Susan whispered. "Do you have a word to call her off?"

"Do I have a—" Edmund echoed, then stopped, then thought. He hadn't. He ran quickly through his limited store of Old Language, found that nothing would help, cross-referenced it against his English, and gave up entirely. "Oh, _pizdets,"_ he moaned – a word of the Old Language which, in any other circumstance, would have earned him a swat over the head from Susan for his profanity.

This time, however, the Gentle Queen agreed.

-x-x-x-x-

As the ocean wind caught Peter's hair, he decided he would never cut it again. Long hair was meant for drama, clearly, and while he had plenty of the kind that resulted in being laughed at – though he privately thought it just as funny as everyone else did – there was something brilliant about heaving hard on a sail-line with one's face to the sun and the wind blowing through long hair.

"Well enough!" Androlus said. "You learn well, Sire!"

"You teach well, sir!" Peter called back.

The small boats which the Galmans had used to reach the mainland were multi-purpose creatures. They each were fitted with a mast and two sails, the jib fore the mast and the mainsail aft it. Each carried oars enough for four men, and a selection of poles so that the nearly flat-hulled crafts could be maneuvered through shallow water.

It was Susan, with her steel trap of a mind, who'd brought up the murky memory from old schooldays back there and coined the Law of Peter. _A King in Motion tends to stay in Motion,_ so the joke went, _for that is the only thing which will Soothe his wild Mind._ Peter had to admit it was true. He loved to ride, and before recent troubles had taken to the hills and forests with the Talking Horse Galthis, a dark bay stallion, as often as his duties would allow. He enjoyed swimming and running and climbing, and never balked at extra work on the training fields, for an entire kingdom could depend on the sword arm of its King. Peter walked the halls of the Cair at night when he could not sleep, and found quicker answers to his problems when ambulatory than if he stared into a fire or at the canopy of his bed. When in the throne room dispensing judgments and settling disputes, it was well known that the harder Peter thought, the more his foot would jiggle. Though he'd never admit it to Oreius, he'd taken Axet up on the offer of an airborne ride or two, just to see what it was like – in the hazy life of Back There, Peter vaguely remembered wanting to be a pilot.

Being on a boat, Peter was learning, a boat with its sails full of a stiff wind, the craft leaping with the waves, was every bit as good as flying.

"Ready to come about, Sire?" Androlus asked.

"Aye!" Peter shouted happily, twisting his arm into the line.

"On three," Androlus said, and at two and two thirds, as near as Peter could tell, they hauled hard to bring the small craft around. The deck sloped as the over-filled sails pulled hard in the wind before the small boat righted itself.

Peter, delighted by the drag of gravity against his body, whooped with joy.

Below him, in the water, a shoal of bare-breasted mermaids followed in the boat's wake. They knew what it carried, and were determined to keep their King from coming to any harm. They could see the glint of the Sea-King's knife in his belt, and they knew what it meant. Too, it was great fun to ride the slipstream of a boat, and while they had never experienced it themselves, they'd heard stories from their grand-mothers and great-grand-mothers about doing such a thing.

The small Galman boat cut through the gentle waves like a knife and Peter could not remember feeling so free – not since his swim with the mermaids. Peter wondered what it would be like to sail on the larger boat – the _ketch,_ he recalled, the thing that Lucy was trying her hardest to keep from being called the Bathtub.

-x-x-x-x-

It had been last week's planning council, Peter remembered with a grin, when the question of names had come up. He'd arrived early with Susan and some of the Galman shipwrights, and they were taking a report from the Dwarf in charge of carving the stone figure-head.

"If you'll give us a name for the thing, we can add it to the design," was all the poor Dwarf said before pandemonium erupted. Everyone had ideas, of course. The Beasts and Beings present thought of names fitting to their species, and the Galmans argued amongst themselves over the old traditional names for watercraft, trying to decide which grouping of names would be best fitting to choose from for a ketch – and whether there was a proper name for a barge belonging to royalty. Peter privately had hoped for a more meaningful name, something representing the endeavor of reuniting Galma with Narnia, though he could not think of one or two words to sum up the feeling. Susan watched quietly, with unreadable eyes – who knew what Susan thought of things?

Then Ed had come in and ruined it all. "What's this ruckus?" asked King Edmund of the Very Bad Timing. "And what's that there?" he asked, pointing to a rough sketch. "Are we going to Galma in an overgrown bathtub?"

Silence fell in the council-room, while Narnian and Galman looked to each other for some kind of hint as to how to reply.

Truth be told – though Peter hadn't said as much to Lucy, and never would if he wanted to keep from finding horseradish in his shaving kit – it was all his own fault.

"A bathtub!" was all Peter had managed to say before falling back into his royal chair at the head of the council table, laughing uproariously. "My brother claims we'll go to Galma in a bathtub! How'd that one go?" he asked, glancing to his siblings. "The rhyme from Back There. Three men and a tub?"

Again the Narnians and Galmans exchanged glances, and the room fell silent but for Peter's helpless chuckling.

"Rub-a-dub-dub," replied Susan, of all people, with a glint in her eye. "Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub, and who do you think they be?"

"A Galman, a Satyr, and this royal faker," Edmund crowed, pointing to Peter. "False knaves! Turn them out, all three!"

Peter, at that point, could only pound the table while howling with laughter, and of course the entire meeting broke up at that. They'd tried to return to business, but it was impossible. Everyone left telling jokes about Kings and Knaves and Tubs – the English rhyme evolving into half a dozen new Narnian forms before an hour had passed – and by dinner that day every soul in castle Cair Paravel was referring to the half-built ketch as King Edmund's Bathtub.

Leaning into the wind, Peter chuckled again at the memory. He was sure that some kings – though he only had a vague notion of what a proper king would be – would dislike being made the butt of jokes as often as Peter himself was. Peter often felt that he was getting this kingship thing wrong, somehow – doing things he should not do, or doing them in the wrong way. Perhaps it was a failing within himself, as he often felt he lacked the gravity for such a position. All he could do was trust that Aslan knew what he was about when he'd chosen Peter to be high king. Besides, Peter knew that Aslan was as fond of a joke as anybody else. He'd told quite a good one about a jackdaw, once.

Though, Peter mused, it'd do well if Lucy came up with a better name than The Bathtub. A ship with a joke name would not say much about the motives behind such a tricky diplomatic mission.

-x-x-x-x-

Edmund felt sure that if his mind was working properly he'd have the right term for the pileup at his door. It wasn't, though, so all he could do was sit back and gape. Ruchabrik had come in, officious as always, with the Satyr guard Ceron close on his heels, and two Black Dwarfs and the Mastiff Fensher behind them. They were held in the doorway by a startlingly ferocious Glendon, growling so hard her bony frame shook. The gang behind Ruchabrik decided that discretion was the better part of valor and tried to hide behind the stalwart Captain.

Ruchabrik, being wholly immune to surprise or startlement, faced off against Glendon; her teeth were bared and his knife was raised, though thus far neither had made the first move.

"You'd best see to your pet before I make a rug of her, Sire," Ruchabrik warned.

It would figure, thought Edmund, that before he'd had a chance to get the Wer-Wolf calmed down and explain the difference between English and the Old Language, he'd get a thrice-damned delegation. She must have assumed that he'd known they were coming and was trying to warn her against them. That would fit the sort of day he'd been having. He lurched to his feet and dodged around the desk – Susan had taken shelter atop it – before dropping to the ground half on top of Glendon, with one arm around her neck and the other over her back.

"Stop that at once," Edmund shouted into the Wer-Wolf's ear, giving her a sharp shake. While it was doubtful that she understood the English words, Edmund's meaning was clear enough and she desisted, though the raised fur along her spine prickled at the underside of Edmund's arm.

"Help me out here," Edmund said to his captain. "Put your knife away."

"You think that's wise?" the Dwarf asked.  
"Now, Ruch," Edmund warned.

"Aye, my life for yours," the Dwarf muttered, sheathing his weapon.

"Su," Edmund said, turning to his sister, surrounded by paperwork on the desk, "get everyone out of here. Go find Ordilan and bring him here, I need a translator." Susan nodded and slipped out of the room. In the sudden silence, Edmund could hear the slap of her shoes against the stone floors, growing quieter as she went.

"Sire?" Ruchabrik asked, ready for directions.

"Clear the room, Ruch," Edmund said, "and find out why everyone has come here. Don't let anyone back in until Su returns with Ordilan."

"Am I your secretary now?" Ruchabrik asked with a smirk, before turning to herd everyone out. He pulled the door nearly shut, then as an afterthought poked his bearded head back in. "I'll leave the door open so's I can get in easier if she tries to rip your throat out," he said.

Glendon rumbled another warning growl.

"Out!" Edmund snapped. The door shut.

At the sound, Glendon went submissively limp. Edmund, who'd been leaning his weight across her bony back, landed heavily on the Wer-Wolf, who yelped. Edmund pulled himself onto his knees and glared at Glendon, who was now whining and showing her belly.

"I ought to have you sent away for that," Edmund muttered, leaning forward and putting a hand on the wolf's neck. "Stay just where you are," he warned. Glendon trembled under his hand, but otherwise remained still.

Edmund heaved out a sigh and relaxed, tilting his head back and dropping his shoulders. He caught a sideways glimpse of his favorite tapestry – the one above the fireplace, which showed a great Lion while the waves broke around his paws.

"Next time I see you," Edmund told the brightly worked Lion, "it won't be me doing the explaining."

-x-x-x-x-

Peter could have stayed out sailing until the moon rose, but a nagging sense of duty wouldn't allow him. Dinner wasn't far off, either, judging by the tilt of the sun in the grey sky. Androlus drove the small boat up into the shallow waves, and Peter leapt with him into the water, wetting himself to the hips. Together they took the line and hauled the boat up to shore. Androlus retrieved a thick metal spike-anchor and a small mallet, while Peter kept the boat from slipping back to the water. Androlus drove the spike as far into the sand as he could, then hammered it down. Peter brought up the rope and, under the Galman's careful instruction, properly knotted it to the ring at the top of the anchor. He shook hands with Androlus and, shedding water down the length of his trousers, shambled up the shingle to his sister. Androlus stowed the mallet in the boat and then followed his King.

Lucy and the friendly mob of dogs had found a sun-warmed dune. Some were busily investigating scent trails along the grass, while the others slept or laid about contently. Lucy, with her head pillowed against the broad back of a sheepdog, had been tempted to nap herself, but she found watching her brother far too interesting. Besides, none of the shipbuilders could agree on a name for the ketch. Neither could the Dogs, who'd got hung up on asking why boats were always female.

"What do you think, Lu?" Peter asked, arms spread wide. "Am I a natural?"

"I don't know," Lucy said. "It looked like you almost fell off."

"He's not quite got his sea-legs yet, Majesty," Androlus offered. "He's learning well enough. And you needn't worry – the ketch will be much smoother."

"I'm not worried about that," Lucy said brightly. "I like boats. Ships," she amended, at the look of consternation in Androlus' face. "It's so big – are you sure we can't bring more along with us?"

"Aye, Majesty," Androlus said. "With the supplies their Majesties want to bring back there'll not be much room for passengers."

"Maybe next time," Lucy said brightly. "Or the time after that. Peter, do you want your shoes?"

"Yes," Peter said, standing on one foot and examining the sole of the other. "I thought these boats of yours didn't splinter."

"You spend too much time in shoes, Sire," Androlus said with a grin. "Your feet need to harden."

"Mine have," Lucy offered, pulling Peter's soft boots out from underneath a few Dogs. "Here you go. Mr. Tumnus says that they'll turn to hooves, soon enough."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Peter asked, flinging himself into the thick dune grass and picking at the sole of his foot. "How is he, anyway?"

"He's doing better," Lucy said. "He doesn't have such bad nightmares. Cloudstrike's been taking care of him – they talk together for hours. I think it's helping."

"Glad to hear it," Peter said, abandoning any pretense at civility whatsoever as he tried to remove the splinter with his teeth.

"And you say I run wild," Lucy laughed.

"I know I remember – ptheh!" Peter spat into the sand. "I remember a certain little sister of mine begging to learn how to remove splinters with her teeth." He ran his fingers over his foot.

"Have you got it?" Lucy asked.

"Yes," Peter said, reaching for a boot.

"You're covered in sand," Lucy observed. "Susan's going to love that. And I don't know where your crown is."

"It's here," Peter said, patting absently at his tangled mop of hair. "Somewhere." He pulled his other boot on and laced it.

Lucy looked up at Androlus and smiled widely. "Hard to believe we're royalty, isn't it?"

"You said it, Majesty, not me."

"Ehm," Peter cleared his throat and winked at his sister. "We're quite capable of comporting ourselves with dignity and grace."

"When we have to," Lucy put in.

"When we have to," Peter agreed. He rose and extended a hand to help Lucy to her feet. "Do you wish a ride back, my lady?"

"I think not," Lucy said, wrinkling her nose. "I'll stay dry, thanks."

The Dog guard followed their rulers back to castle Cair Paravel, clamoring for another song. They got it, of course, because it's hard not to sing to Dogs who love you.

-x-x-x-x-

Ruchabrik and his entourage, minus one Dwarf left behind to guard Edmund's room, caught Queen Susan on her way back. Ruchabrik, having waited twice as long as any Dwarf would wait, gave her the news at once.

"Oh, this is bad," Susan said weakly. "This is very bad. Are you sure?"

"Sure as eggs is eggs," Ruchabrik said. "You can't be half dead."

"Do you need to sit down?" Ordilan asked, moving to his Queen's side.

"I'll be all right, thank you," said Susan. "We'd best get to Ed – he'll need to know this. Someone should bring Peter and Lucy in, as well. Don't tell them what happened, just have them brought here at once."

"I'll see to it," said the Mastiff, Fensher, who turned and loped away down the hall.

"If you need anything," Ordilan said to Susan, solicitously.

"Just my family," she said, leading the way back to Edmund's study. "Does anybody else know?"

"Just the guards," Ruchabrik said. "I came up to tell the prat as quick as I could, but he was busy with his pet – and it's not as though the piker can get worse."

"True," Susan said. "What a horrible thing. Did anyone know that would happen?"

"We didn't even think of it," Ceron said apologetically. "We didn't know anything was wrong – it's not as though he was making noises in there."

"Not even when he—ugh," Susan said, passing a hand over her face. "You know what I mean."

"Not even then," Ruchabrik said. "Though I'm doubting his guard would know. We had one of the Trees at that door. I'm not sure he'd see what the sounds meant, but he says he heard nothing."

"We've checked on the other one," Ceron added. "He's all right. I'm not sure how to prevent this, though."

"Neither am I," Ruchabrik said, stopping at Edmund's study door.

"I hadn't expected it at all," said Susan. "This is so very bad. What do you think made him do it?"

"I wouldn't know, Majesty," Ruchabrik said. He knocked on the door. "Prat!" he barked. "You got your pet under control?"

"Come in," Edmund's voice called, muffled by the thick door.

The crowd in the hall paused and as one glanced to Ruchabrik, expecting him to lead the way.

"Great bunch of sissies," the Dwarf muttered, opening the door and walking into the room.

There, in the middle of the floor, lay Edmund, half reclining, with his back against Glendon's belly. His weight rested on his right arm, which crossed Glendon's throat.

"You're going to choke her," Susan scolded.

"I'm not," Edmund said. "I don't know how to tell her to stay put." He glanced up at Ordilan. "Will you?"

"Aye, Sire," the Man said. _"Wolf,"_ he said to Glendon in the Old Language, _"do not move."_

She thumped her tail against the floor.

"It might help if she turned back into a girl before you tried talking with her," Ruchabrik observed.

_"Take your human body,"_ Ordilan instructed. _"Your King needs to speak with you, through me."_

Obediently, Glendon shivered her way into her girl-shape. Edmund, who found himself reclining on a slender young girl without a stitch of clothing on, leapt to his feet as though burnt.

Ruchabrik snorted knowingly. So did Ordilan. Susan merely wondered how much of his talk of Dryads was guff, just to keep the score with Peter, who staggered under the weight of his fresh kingly hormones.

_"What shall he have me do?"_ Glendon asked.

_"Nothing, at the moment,"_ Ordilan said. "What do you want me to tell her?"

Edmund tilted his head skyward – a gesture he'd picked up from Peter. "Tell the idiot – yes, idiot, or whatever the word is for that – that if she wishes to stay here she is never to do what she did today. Tell her that everyone living in this castle and its grounds is not to be threatened, or harassed, or growled at, or bitten. Ever."

Ordilan did this. And then, translating Glendon's brief reply, "She wishes to protect you, Sire."

"Protect me from what?" Edmund yelped in frustration. "I'm as safe here as I could possibly be! The only thing she needs to protect me from is bad food and – no, don't say that, then I'll have her testing my food before I eat it."

"She ought to protect you from drinking with us, Sire," Ruchabrik offered. "Or maybe protect you from ale in general."

"I could order you to shave that beard, sir," Edmund retorted.

"Do it and you'll find yourself short a Captain of the Guard," Ruchabrik said, unfazed.

Edmund groaned and put a hand over his face. He paused for a moment, thinking. "All right. Ordilan, tell her that she is to view everyone in this castle as superior to her. Everyone, unless I tell her otherwise. She is not to interpret any action as a threat unless I specifically tell her it is, which I will do with the code word we know, three times. She is also to seek teaching with you, or Cloudstrike, or Susan, so that I can talk to her without any outside assistance. Tell her that right now the most important thing for her to do is to learn English, so that I can speak with her. And lastly – Ruch, how many Wer-Wolf attacks have we had?"

"Not counting her, five."

"Ruch, find a smith to make a chain for her to wear. Have them put my mark on it. I'll not have her shot or threatened while she's in her wolf body."

"I'll see to it," Ruchabrik said.

"Tell her the rest of that," Edmund said to Ordilan, who complied. This took some doing, as the Wer-Wolf seemed full of questions, and silence fell except for the patter of Old Language coming from the Man and the young wolf-girl. Glendon got the last word in the discussion, apparently, as after she spoke she turned and made her way back to the window seat across the room.

Ordilan let out a fierce belly-laugh, and when Susan and Edmund asked him what was so funny he only laughed harder. When he finally calmed, he accepted a mug of cold tea from the leftover lunch on Edmund's desk and wiped his eyes. "She says you must not be that important," he finally explained, "if nobody is trying to hurt you."

"Of all the – is this what it's like to be Peter?" Edmund asked.

"I think so, Sire," Ruchabrik said.

"That's settled, now," Edmund said. "What's your news?"

"Well," Susan said, unsure how to proceed.

"Wait for your family," Ordilan ordered, breaking the awkward silence. He held up a hand, silencing any arguments. "I know, I'm out of line giving orders to you – but you've had a shock," he told Susan, "and you've got that wolf," he told Edmund. He turned to one of Ruchabrik's Dwarfs. "Alfisk, can you find Valios? Tell him he's needed here, and have him send for some spirits."

"Fresh tea as well, I think," Susan said. "A tisane, something calming."

"Of course," the Dwarf said, hurrying out of the room.

"Sit down, both of you – someone shift this damn sofa back onto its feet – and wait until everyone is here. Then, sir," Ordilan turned to Ruchabrik, "you've only got to tell it once more."

"Good to know someone else can keep his head around here," Ruchabrik said with grudging respect. Silence grew as everyone present helped right Edmund's furniture. Glendon, curled in the window seat, ignored it all in favor of a nap.

Edmund, of course, was even less patient than a Dwarf. "What's so bad?" he asked, helping Ceron flip the sofa.

"It can wait," Ordilan said. He took Susan by the elbow and led her to the couch, seating himself on the ground nearby.

"How bad?" Edmund asked.

"It can wait," Susan repeated, tensely. And they did, settling themselves in Edmund's messy study, all closer to the door than usual, as though worried that the sleeping Wer-Wolf would go off again.

"Hello, everyone. What's the problem?" Valios finally arrived, pushing a small cart laden with an assortment of spirit-bottles, a steaming pot of tea, and an eclectic collection of glassware.

"Bad news, apparently," Edmund said, "but nobody wants to tell me."

"Best to wait until their Majesties are all here. The other King and Queen have been sent for," Ceron offered.

"I don't want to go over this more than once," Susan said.

"It can't be that bad," Valios said lightly, pouring cups of tea. "Nobody's died, have they?"

The room went perfectly silent. Edmund took one look at Susan's face and knew that someone had.

"Who was it?" a quavering voice asked from the doorway. Lucy had arrived, with a damp and windblown Peter in tow.

Valios cleared his throat, uncorked the brandy bottle, and added a generous splash to each mug of tea.

"Who's died?" Peter echoed.

"One of our captives," Ruchabrik said. "The Dwarf of Rockfall, the one who wouldn't speak – he killed himself in his cell. We found him when we brought his afternoon meal."

* * *

Notes for Part The Twenty-Third:

The term blowing a raspberry is from a bit of Cockney rhyming slang that originally called it a 'raspberry tart.' It is a hilarious thing to do in your brother's ear when he's carrying you on his back, unless he drops you. In Narnia it is a razzle, because they've none of them been to the Bronx.

The dog-song is by Led Zeppelin, off their third album, and is called "Bron-Y-Aur Stomp." Look it up; it's got a rollicking beat, good for tramping about the countryside with a pack of dogs. It was written for Robert Plant's dog, named 'Strider' after the character from Lord Of The Rings.

Ed's phrase in the Old Language – _vakta mig_ – is Swedish for "guard me." Thanks to Badger for that spot of translation. I'm not sure if it rhymes with "baked a pig," but I claim linguistic flexibility for the purposes of giving Ed trouble. Which brings us to a total of three real-world languages I've hijacked for this fic, I think. His further profanity – _pizdets_ – is Russian, and for the sake of keeping my Teen rating, I will not tell you what it means.

"The best way to understand a command is to do everything once" – this is a paraphrased line from Stargate SG-1, said by Jack O'Neill. I think our highnesses would agree. I'm also pretty sure that I snaffled some of Jack's goofass fearless leader schtick for Peter. They'd get along great, those two. They'd just dork around.

"This is bad, this is very bad" – I couldn't resist throwing in a nod to Liam Neeson, who did the voicework for the mad scientist Fujimoto in the English version of Ponyo. It's a beautiful, charming movie that you all should go rent at once.

I know next to nothing about boats. I know so little about boats that I am not sure when to use the word boat or when to use the word ship. I have no idea what imp of the perverse told me to put boats in my fic. I have seen – and dodged – spike anchors down on the beach, and they work as described. If they are a recent invention, let's pretend Galmans thought of them first, shall we?


	24. Magic and Memory

_In which a King is taught his strength, a Spell is built, a Statue scorned, and a Lady made._

* * *

Lucy woke earlier than usual that morning, with an unfamiliar pain in her belly, warm and tight. The sight of blood confirmed her suspicion, and she had been expecting it; Eyzi the Dog had noticed, days earlier, that the young Queen's scent was changing.

This was a fortunate thing, as it had given Lucy time to prepare. With the strange curse-sickness in the air and summer fading fast, the ritual could wait or be changed, but Lucy wanted to do the thing just right.

She slipped outdoors in the early-morning light, clad in her red riding boots and her nightdress, with the belt from Father Christmas carrying the precious cordial, the ever-sharp dagger, and a fire-making kit Mr. Tumnus had given her. Over her shoulder she carried a battered metal shield, much too large for her use, by now so damaged from use that most of the lacquer had flaked away to show rust beneath. Tucked under one arm she had a thick towel, large enough to serve her as a blanket.

She pressed her left hand over the tight heat within her belly. It was not unexpected, but it was strange, all the same.

Water lilies, as every Narnian knows, are sacred things. The reasons had been lost to time and the regime of the White Witch, but the uses survived, kept by Beasts, who remember.

Tucked away in one of the winding gardens of castle Cair Paravel was a strange thing, a large square pond, lined in blocks of white stone worn smooth with the passage of feet and paws and centuries, half-hidden underneath muck and soil and the detritus of so many damp growing things. It was crowded with herons and moorhens and cormorants. White water lilies grew thickly there, and while the many stories had long since been lost, the waterfowl still knew that the flowers came from a place close to Aslan's Country beyond the end of the world.

Lucy bobbed a curtsey to the Birds, already stalking for fish in the murky pre-dawn light, and they nodded silent hellos in return. The rituals of a Human mean very little to a waterbird; it was theirs to keep the place, not to bother themselves with why others came to it.

Lucy set the old war-shield down on one of the larger stones bordering the pond. She gathered tinder quickly, and set a small fire burning inside the shield. The metal would keep the fire contained, and the fire would keep her warm on such a morning. She dropped the rest of her belongings at the side of the pool, shucking off her boots and sliding out of her nightdress. She eased herself into the water, feeling the gooseflesh rise from her toes to her scalp at the coldness.

When Susan had done this thing, a few years earlier, it was late in the spring, with the warmth of summer spreading over the sky. It had very nearly been made a party by the Dryads and Beasts and Beings who'd seen fit to accompany their Queen to her creation as a woman grown. This time was different, with a hint of coldness in the air, and Lucy had kept the thing to herself.

Sometimes it goes wrong, Susan had explained, as she had been told that long-ago day. Bodies are imperfect things. Sometimes that within you that makes you a woman can cause sickness or hurt. That was why, on the first morning of womanhood, one would soak in the lily-water, where anything wrong within would be healed.

Lucy lifted her arms, covered in lily flowers, and floated on her back, feeling her hair wind and tangle in the thick stems. On the edges of her vision the waterfowl hunted and stalked and stood. They kept vigil with her, in their own silent ways, as the youngest Queen of Narnia presented the woman which she had become to the waters of the world.

-x-x-x-x-

When King Peter had agreed to a stone figurehead for the ship being built to travel to Galma, he had not expected it would be finished before the ship itself was, though that was a near thing. He did not have a Dwarf's knowledge of masonry, so when the crate was carried in by only four Dwarfs, he (in a moment considered rude, but on the whole forgivable) wasted time asking how such a large statue could be so light, instead of politely complimenting the masons on their craft. Once the lightweight stone had been explained, and the crate had been pried open, Peter went silent in an amazed and appreciative way, which soothed the ruffled Dwarfs completely. Even after they left, Peter's fascination held.

"Very like," said Peter wonderingly, moving in closer so that he found himself eye to nipple. "Very, very like."

"Very like to put your eye out, you get any closer to its tits," Ruchabrik laughed.

"Quiet, you," Peter scolded. "A work like this requires a moment's reflection."

All present had to agree that it did: the figurehead for the still-unnamed _Tub_ was a marvel of stonework. The statue resembled a mermaid with wings for arms, raised behind her as though she were slicing through the waves. Instead of the fish-tail that Peter knew well, this creature had a rounded fleshy tail not unlike that of a whale. Every last feather, every lock of hair, every line in its flesh had been carved with such precision that the cold texture of the stone surprised Peter when he touched it.

"'Cept for the wings, you know," Alfisk said. "Had a trick of a time getting those right. Think we mocked 'em from a Gryphon, for the most part."

"Mmh," Peter agreed, running a hand along the stone. "A bit of falcon too, I think. One of the smaller tiercels."

"I can see that," Alfisk agreed. "All the sketches we had, I think we did every wing we could get to hold for us. The Men told us anhinga, but we can't find any so far inland. If we'd more time, we may have got hold of some."

"It's a grand work as is," Peter assured them. "Is there such a creature as this?"

"That I can't say, Sire," Ruchabrik said. "We'd had tales from the Galmans, listened to their stories a bit. Thought as it's their build we ought to put something they're familiar with as figurehead."

"I haven't heard this story," Peter said, comfortably slumping into his throne and studying the statue from a distance. At present only he and the two Dwarfs were in the throne room, not counting the statue. His family was due to arrive at some point to be formally presented with the figurehead for the Tub, but Narnian time being what it was, Peter had no idea when they would arrive. Not that it was any sort of hardship to spend a morning swapping stories with two such as Ruchabrik and Alfisk.

"I'm the wrong one to tell it," Alfisk said, "though the best here. I heard it from Talipas – you know him, he's the one your royal brother's pet mauled, though her highness your sister set him to rights. Great storyteller, that Man."

That took a moment for Peter to parse; no matter how often he heard them, he was never completely comfortable with the Narnians' easy use of honorifics in reference to his own family. Peter shook the thought off. "I haven't made his acquaintance yet," Peter said. "I'd like to."

"All of you," Ruchabrik chuckled, "are so fond of stories. You're like children, you know that?"

"If our lives started when we arrived in Narnia, then we are children indeed." Dropping the kingly tone, Peter fixed them with an amused look. "In the reckoning of the world we came from, we still are. Isn't that funny?"

"Wholly deserved, in the case of that brother of yours," Ruchabrik remarked.

"Oh, don't slander the boy when he isn't here to defend himself," Peter laughed.

"Why not?" Ruchabrik retorted. "He does me as soon as I'm out of earshot and you know it."

"He does as he will," Peter said with a snort, "and none of us brave souls can stop him. I would like to hear the story of this creature."

"The creature, Sire, is called _amanti_ by the Galmans. They say they have animals in Galma, not quite like whales, which are similar to the tail of the amanti. These go from saltwater to fresh, and stay near the shore. They are called triche."

"That explains the shape," Peter mused. "And the wings?"

"The amanti is what comes to take a sailor to Aslan's Country, at the end of life. Whether they die on sea or on shore, the amanti will come carry them away beyond the sunrise."

"I like this idea," Peter said. "I like it very much. Where I was born they had a similar story, except that the creatures had birds' feet instead of fish tails. If a sailor heard their song, he would abandon his ship and swim to the rocks where they nested."

"And then what happened?" Alfisk asked.

"They ate him, I think," Peter said.

"I doubt we have such creatures here, Sire, but if we do the Galmans will know it."

"For their sakes I hope not," Peter said absently, trying to remember how the story went. "There was one man who survived their calls. He wanted to hear the songs, so he had his sailors lash him to the mast and swear not to release him, no matter what he said."

"Did they keep their word?" Alfisk asked.

"Naturally!" Peter said. "He was their King."

"This I would like to hear," Ruchabrik said.

"It's not important," Peter said, shrugging. "This world has claimed me. I want to know its stories, not the ones from – from back there." The memory tickled at the back of his mind: the memory of a memory, already half forgotten. Surely it wasn't important. He'd be able to remember it, if it was.

-x-x-x-x-

"Incredible," said Queen Susan, holding the box up to the light and peering inside.

"The real ones will be bigger, my lady," said the previously-injured Galman shipbuilder, Talipas: he was young still, and though possessed of those strange scars that also marked Ordilan's face was otherwise delectably handsome. Had Bacchus been around, the man would be in trouble. Had Susan not still been feeling some unexpected shyness about being in the company of Humans herself, she might be in trouble. Bacchus would laugh at that, but he always laughed.

"Where did this knowledge come from?" Susan asked, tilting the object: a small wooden box with a smaller glass prism fitted into the bottom and a peephole on the other side: when she put her eyes to the box, she saw how well-lit it was inside from just the tiny chunk of glass.

"That I do not know, lady," Talipas said. "We have made these things for ages. There are some in the castle, I believe."

"There are," said the chamberlain Valios. "Though I can't recall word of them being used on board ship before."

"That's what they were made for," Talipas explained. "It won't work with his Highness' bathtub, there's no belowdecks, but in a traditional ship you'd fit as many of these as needed into the deck so that all the below areas have light. They weren't used in building until later on."

"It's brilliant," Susan said. "In all ways." She smiled, just as brilliant as the sparkling prism. "But isn't this a trifle premature? We've not even got the first ship finished, and here you're mocking up a fitting for a galleon?"

"Get enough Narnians together," Talipas said with a smile, "we can't help ourselves. Many of your Beasts and Beings are fascinated by what we know, and have asked us to teach them. I daresay they'll want to start a building guild of their own."

"That would be a thing indeed," said Susan. "Wasn't there one, before the Witch?"

"In Glasswater, yes," Valios said. "But they disbanded, just like everybody else. For their protection, you know. The Witch would have found it convenient to have so many to kill all in once place."

"Of course, cousin," said Susan. "I can understand why they abandoned the place. But would it not be a marvelous thing to rebuild it?"

"It would," Talipas said absently, already wondering what could be done if the finest building minds in Narnia all assembled in one place.

"Then I will say now," said Susan, "and I trust you both to hold me to my word: once the business in Galma is seen to, and once the Witch's curse is broken, we will set our sights on rebuilding this engineering guild of Glasswater."

"Is this the you-we?" Valios asked, with a teasing smile, "or are you pledging their Majesties your family to this without their knowing?"

"Oh, they'll go along with it," Susan said dismissively. "After that Satyr saw to the plumbing problem, we're well aware of the need for intelligent builders."

"Odd one, that Husik," Valios said. Privately, Susan agreed; it was strange indeed for a Satyr to be more interested in manufacture than the joys of a woodland fire. Not that he was immune to such things: he'd quite like Talipas.

"I should like to see that mind of his put to use," Susan said, steering her mind back to business. "Who knows what he'd come up with?"

"I'm not entirely sure I'd want to, Lady," Valios said. "It might not be safe."

"You can hardly tell which section of wall had collapsed," Susan said, waving her friend's concern away.

"I must meet this – Husik, was it?" Talipas asked.

"I shall arrange it for you," the Gentle Queen said.

-x-x-x-x-

Edmund clattered into the throne room, munching on an apple and stuffing a hunk of bread into his belt-pouch. It seemed, lately, that he was impossible to keep fed: Peter had become used to this himself, but his brother was still wrestling with his body's increased need and had taken to squirreling food away on his person at all times. Breakfast was pilfered the most, and to that end the cooks had taken to putting more durable foods on offer, so that the Just King would not attempt – again – to stow a bowl of porridge on his person.

The Wer-Wolf Glendon followed her King, exchanging nods with the Dwarfs, and tipping her head away from Peter, to show the High King her throat. He acknowledged this gesture with a smile, and Glendon scuttled off to a shadowed corner where she could watch the show.

"'lo," Edmund said thickly, with his mouth full of apple. His face contorted for a moment and he swallowed with some difficulty. "What's all this?"

"We've got the figurehead for your tub, Sire," Ruchabrik said.

"Have you?" Edmund asked, sounding much more interested. He dug in the belt-pouch, removed the heel of bread, located a handkerchief, wrapped the apple, and stuffed everything away. Peter grinned at this; Edmund scowled.

"Right," Edmund said, almost to himself, once he'd got his stores organized. He walked into the room, looking about curiously. "What's the—" Edmund nearly tripped over himself as he stopped short when he caught sight of the statue, then approached it carefully.

Peter missed the look on his brother's face. Almost everybody in the room did.

"It's a nanti," Peter said happily.

"An amanti," Ruchabrik corrected.

"Yes, that," Peter said, not minding a bit. "They're a Galman legend, and—"

"No." Edmund's voice sounded cold and strained and very, very old. Edmund was examining the statue as closely as Peter, but with no sense of delight. He raised a shaking hand to its stone face and trailed his fingers across its mouth. Realization hit Peter in the stomach.

"Don't use it," Edmund said, his face pale. "It's beautiful, but – so were – I can't bear it." He shook his head, quickly. "Make one of wood, or metal – or something not as detailed as this. Never as detailed as this."

Peter slumped back in his chair and pressed a hand to his face. "I didn't even think, Ed, you know—"

"Oh, come on, Berk," Ruchabrik tried.

"Just don't—" Edmund said, his voice catching in his throat. He coughed and tried again. "Don't tell?"

"Ed," Peter said, jumping to his feet, "you know none of us will think—"

"Come up with another reason, will you?" Edmund asked. "Any reason they can't use it." He turned and fled the room, brushing away from his brother's grasp.

"Ed!" Peter called, but Edmund did not return.

"Made a right wreck of that, we did," Ruchabrik muttered glumly, sitting down on the edge of the dais.

"It hadn't crossed my mind," Peter said, sitting next to him with a thump. "We haven't any other statues here, have we?"

"Not a one," Ruchabrik said. "I think it caught him up as well. He liked the idea 'til he saw it."

"He wouldn't say, you know," Peter tried. "If it did bother him, he wouldn't say anything. But this is different. I think it made him remember."

A small sigh startled them. They glanced up to see the baleful glare of Glendon, still wrapped in her dirty third-hand cloak. She made a disappointed sound in her throat – which made Peter remember his mother with a sudden clarity – then gathered up the ends of the cloak and dashed off in pursuit of her King.

The throne room was silent for a long while.

"Were we just tipped by a Wer-Wolf?" Peter asked eventually.

"I think we were," Ruchabrik said.

"Well," Peter said faintly. "That's new." He sighed, scrubbing a hand across his forehead, then hoisted himself to his feet and set off in search of his brother.

-x-x-x-x-

It took the better part of an hour before Glendon found her King partway up a tree, sitting on a broad branch with his back to the trunk. He was closed in on himself, curled into a ball with his arms clutched together. If he heard her approach, he didn't react. His bird-quick heartbeat and the tangy scent of adrenaline told her all she needed to know, and the shivering only confirmed it. She glanced down, fumbling with the unfamiliar clasp of her cape. She'd felt that way enough herself to know what to do for the boy-king.

"Sir," she said gently, slipping the cloak off her shoulders.

Edmund glared down at her. "Pike off."

"Here," she said, offering the thing up.

"I don't need it," Edmund said. "Or you." He swore in the Old Language, incorrectly – which would have struck Glendon as amusing at any other time, considering that area was where he was most proficient in the tongue. "Go home."

"Take," Glendon said, pushing a fold of the cloak over her King's knee, completely out of English words to use.

Edmund glared, then took the cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Thank you," he said.

Glendon shifted into her wolf-form and curled in a hollow in the tree's roots. She rested her chin on her foreleg and waited, comfortably on guard for as long as she felt she was needed.

-x-x-x-x-

It is said in our world, when something has gone badly and is not what it once was, that it has gone to the dogs. This is entirely backwards, because it is a known truth in Narnia that when something has gone to the Dogs, it is under careful and capable supervision.

In our world, just as in Narnia, a Dog is the best companion for a Human. They are attuned to a Human's changes in mood by scent and sight and sound, and they know how to read the odd expressions on a Human face. Perhaps most importantly, of all good Beasts they are the most fond of Humans and strongly prefer to have them nearby. Beasts remember, all of them, and this is the thing the Dogs remembered most strongly. Indeed, in the time under the Witch, Dogs had taken great pains to go into hiding. The maxim Mr. Beaver had quoted, that long-ago evening, about things that look Human but aren't, was originally coined by a Dog, much to the displeasure of the White Witch. (The part about the hatchet, though, was entirely his own invention.)

So it was that in the earliest days of the Pevensie reign the Pack of Paravel was formed: guards and hunters, trackers and tricksters, helpers and herders, all delighted with their new _pet __Humans_ and content to be living practically on top of each other, as Dogs do.

The old saying, like so many other things, emerged as a joke in the early years of the Reign of the Four: this time it was Lucy who made the verbal slip, and after begging forgiveness of a highly affronted Pack of Paravel, she had her royal brother Edmund draft a decree officially stating the positive meaning of the phrase. He did it because it kept the peace, and besides, Lucy had promised he would.

One of Queen Lucy's guards and friends was a massive woolly-haired grey sheepdog, of the Narnian type called an Alaunt, which bears passing resemblance to the mountain-dogs of the Caucasus, in our world. Her name was Eyzi, and she was a steady and capable Beast. She allowed her Queen to pillow her head on her broad back, she soothed her during the occasional nightmare (less frequent now than in the beginning, as memories of that Over There place faded), and when she herself could not solve a problem, she seemed to always know who best to bring for help.

Today the problem was a purely Human one. Eyzi would have retrieved the Kings Peter or Edmund, had she felt they were needed, but in this case only a sister would do.

Eyzi nudged her way into the sitting-room where Queen Susan sat talking with Talipas and Valios, woofed lowly for attention, and sat with her head held high and her tail curled to cover her hand-sized forepaws.

Susan knelt to embrace Eyzi in the way one greets a familiar Narnian Dog: pressing the side of her face to the Dog's strong neck and feeling the solid weight of Eyzi's massive head against her chest.

"My lady," said Eyzi, "your sister is in need of you."

Susan politely made her excuses to Valios and Talipas, then followed the Dog through quiet corridors that led to her family's private rooms. Upon reaching an alcove that – yes, now she noticed it – was lit by way of a particularly large glass prism set in the wall, she stopped and knelt again to speak with Eyzi in private.

"Now, cousin, please tell me what the matter is," Susan asked.

"Your sister has her first blood," Eyzi said.

"Already?" Susan said, with surprise. "I hadn't expected that for some time yet."

"Neither had she, I suspect," said Eyzi. "I smelled it, and told her it was coming." That of course was irrefutable, a Dog's nose being what it is. "She did not seem upset, or frightened, but neither was there a lack of upset or fright."

Susan frowned, trying to parse that. "She's upset, but she's not upset?"

"Yes, my Lady," the Dog said.

Clear as mud. Susan shook her head. Dogs were very good at understanding Human emotion, but they often had problems explaining what they sensed. Though, in all fairness to Dogs, the feelings of a Human are often contradictory. "Let us see to her, then," said Susan.

"Thank you, my Lady," Eyzi said, rising and leading the way. "She is in the water lilies."

-x-x-x-x-

Glendon smelled it before she heard it: three goats, two Dwarfs, and a mess of manufacture. Wood, metal, cloth, and leather. Food and drink. Dried herbs. There were no Dwarf clans in the area, and everyone knew well that no worthy Dwarf would move on anything but its own two feet.

"Sir," she said, alertly.

Edmund, sleepily picking his nails with his bootknife, hummed in response without bothering to look down.

Glendon grumbled to herself, mentally sorting through the new words she'd learned. "Ware," she finally said. "Danger… goes?"

Edmund leaned forward, straining his eyes and ears. "I don't see anyth-oooogh!"

The Wer-Wolf had tugged his ankle, to bring his attention back to her, without realizing Edmund was leaning in the wrong direction. They collapsed in an uncomfortable heap of knees and elbows in the tree roots.

"By the Lion's twitching tail, you—"

Again Edmund was silenced, this time by a hand over his mouth. "Shh," Glendon hissed. She lifted her head, shaking back her tangled mop of hair, and sniffed cautiously. She removed the hand from Edmund's face and shifted into her wolf-body, scenting the air more carefully.

Edmund wriggled under the tense mass of Wer-Wolf, rolling his belly to the ground so that he could peek over one of the tree roots. What he saw almost made him laugh in relief: a small wooden cart, drawn by three dumb goats, with two Black Dwarfs riding in it. The driver pulled the goats to a stop, and his passenger studied the pair in the tree roots.

"Ho, friend," called the passenger, her voice deep and resonant. "Whatever you've got yourself there is nothing I've a mind to take."

Glendon did not relax at this. Edmund gently shifted her hind paw off his leg.

"Though I'd suggest the next time you hide a Human," the Dwarf casually continued, "be sure its feet aren't sticking out."

The driver snickered. Glendon growled. Edmund had half a mind to laugh too, but stopped himself.

"Have you got one of our Kings or Queens?" the first Dwarf asked. "As it's only that I've come on their request, and if you've brought one to me that saves us both time."

Edmund clicked his tongue to get Glendon's attention and flashed a sign – _desist_ – then braced against her to climb to his feet. "Well met, lady Dwarf," he said. "I am King Edmund."

"It is one of our kinglings, then!" the Dwarf said. "Hail, sire! I am Aisling, Clanhead of Rockfall. This is my son, Brand."

"Hullo, yer Majesty," the other Dwarf said, clucking at the goats, which shifted nervously at Glendon's scent.

"Edmund," the Clanhead repeated. "We've heard tell of you, dark like ourselves, and your brother as bright as the Sun. Who is your companion?"

"This sack of skin is the Wer-Wolf Glendon," Edmund explained, hopping lightly from the tangle of roots and approaching the cart. "She will not harm you." He flashed two signals to her: _desist,_ again, and then _be __at __ease._ Glendon nodded, in a most un-Wolflike manner, then leaned against Edmund's leg in an apologetic way.

"That's a good guard for one such as you," Aisling said, easing herself out of the cart with difficulty. She walked with a limp, Edmund noticed, and her curly black hair was so long and thick that it resembled a cloak.

"She needs training, still," Edmund said, shaking the Wer-Wolf from his leg, closing the distance between himself and the limping Dwarf so that she did not have to move more than necessary. "We weren't expecting you so soon. It is good to meet you, though I fear your errand here is unpleasant – did the message explain it fully?"

"Aye, we took the cart for speed," Aisling said, clasping hands with Edmund. "'Tis a sad business – one of our clansmen found from the Witch's Wood, and dead by his own hand." She shook her head. "I'll not be blaming you, nor any of yours – the Witch took many from us, and I know well what she turned them to. And you, little friend," she said, offering a hand to Glendon, "be at ease. We've no intent to cause harm."

Glendon quickly sniffed the offered hand, registering the scent, then dropped back to Edmund's side.

"Had you recovered many from the endless wood?" Edmund asked.

"Some," said Aisling, thinking carefully. "It's rare, but sometimes we'd find one was spat out by the Witch's magic, left for dead and dying on our doorstep as a warning. Her magic could call my own out of their beds, if they were weak to it."

"What do you know about the Witch's magic?" Edmund asked, trying for a casual, conversational tone. "In our four years here we'd not seen such an army coming from the endless wood as we had recently."

"It's not the armies that bother you this day," Aisling said shrewdly. "I see that clear as your face. As for the magic – I can tell you what I know, which isn't much, if you'll allow me to get off this blasted knee."

"Of course," Edmund said, though he felt the opposite. "Will this tree do?" Wishing the thrice-damned statue had never been made and that his own fears could be safely left in the dark, he leaned on his well-practiced royal etiquette. It seemed to work.

"That depends," the Clanhead replied. "Have you got any more Humans hiding in it?" She winked.

Despite himself, Edmund grinned. "Not that I know of, madam."

Soon they were settled, King and Clanhead, in a well-appointed picnic under the tree. The provisions were brought from the cart by Brand, who hurriedly returned to his goats. Glendon had taken her girl-shape, demanding to taste the tea before Edmund had a cup: she sniffed it, sipped it, and spit it out.

"Bit sour, love?" Aisling asked. "It takes some getting used to."

"Hulgh," Glendon said, putting the cup down.

"Puts hair on your tongue and turns your chest black – or, the other way 'round, maybe," Aisling said, pouring out cups for herself and Edmund. She drank deeply from her cup, smacking her lips. "Ah. Now what's got you in an upset? The magic?"

It might have worked. Edmund scowled, briefly, before giving up the fight and composing himself. "Your clansman," Edmund said, "before he – I went to see him. He wouldn't speak to me, but he recognized me. I'd never seen him before, but he knew me. Or – I don't think he knew me, exactly." This was hard enough to tell to his own family; it was doubly difficult to explain to a stranger.

"We've heard great things of you," Aisling said soothingly. "Wand-breaker they call you, sword-swinger. You came out from her magic and ended it all."

"I didn't kill her, Aslan did." Edmund looked away – at the ground, the trees, his own feet, anywhere but the warm-hearted lady Dwarf.

"Your hands broke the wand," the Dwarf said. "That's a worthy thing. Magic leaves a mark, you know, good or bad. Always does. I'd wager that's what my kinsman saw in you, the mark of someone who'd clawed free of ensorcelement."

"It was nothing I did," Edmund repeated. "It was – Aslan did it. He freed me." Glendon, in wolf-body once more, sensed his tension and sidled near. Edmund put an arm over her shoulder and leaned into her.

"Can't free someone who doesn't want to be freed," Aisling said. "As grand as our Lion is, he can't do a thing for those who don't want to be helped. Something within you rejected her magic, gave him the way in. That makes you strong, kingling. That's a power all your own."

Edmund shook his head and grunted, not trusting his voice to speak.

"Let me tell you something," Aisling said. "The father of my first two daughters went willingly to the Witch's service. He swore he'd deliver our entire clan to her, have us bow at her feet." She shook her head. "We tried to stop him. Tried to speak reason to him. He wouldn't have it."

"What happened to him?" Edmund asked.

"I killed him," Aisling replied, simply. It was clear there was more to the story; it was also clear that she had no intention of reliving it.

"That's horrible," Edmund said, and could say no more. He pressed his forehead against Glendon's side. She rumbled in a reassuring manner.

"The crime isn't to fall, my little king," Aisling said gently. "It's to refuse the hand that would help you up."

"Paw, in my case," Edmund blurted.

Aisling laughed, a welcome sound.

"She did such horrible things," Edmund said, his face still pressed into the Wer-Wolf's body. "That's why I knew she had to be stopped." He looked up. "Wouldn't that be enough? If I did these good things myself, wouldn't that—" He shook his head.

"Make it go away?" Aisling asked gently. "You don't want that, not at all. It's not a sign of weakness you show. It's a sign of strength, that you fought free. You broke the binding she placed on you – that is what shows. Be proud of it."

"How do you know these things?" Edmund asked. "How can you speak of it so easily?"

"Look well, kingling," the Dwarf said. "You'll see."

He studied her, then: the studded leather tunic, the thick hair with streaks of grey, the finely-honed axe tucked in her belt. Her face was lined in such a way that she creased when she smiled. Her bare arms were heavily tattooed. And her eyes, dark as night – Edmund startled, as he recognized something in her.

"He freed you too," Edmund whispered, realization landing like a hammer.

"That he did," Aisling said. "We're the same, you and I, by the Lion's grace." She smiled and shook her head. "We'd gotten no messenger from Cair Paravel, kingling, though I was given a message." She inclined her head respectfully. "Delivered by paw, as you'd say."

Edmund grinned: he should have thought, by now, to expect this sort of thing. "I think we both needed to have this talk," he said.

"I know I did," Aisling said. "It's good, isn't it, to know you're not alone?"

"It is," Edmund said. "And I feel I have left some business unfinished. Will you, wise Clanhead of Rockfall, accept the escort of a King and a Wer-Wolf back to Cair Paravel?"

"Gladly," said Aisling, "though I've a powerful need to hug you both first." The boy-king of Narnia and his loyal Wer-Wolf fell into the Dwarf's open arms, and the Lion's wind blew over them.

-x-x-x-x-

On Edmund's return, with his escort of Dwarfs and Wer-Wolf, he saw his family gathered in the garden and knew what had happened. Each of the Four had had their own of-age rituals in that very pond. Aisling nodded knowingly, since there are similar rites among the Dwarfs; Glendon watched, curiously. Edmund asked the Dwarfs and Wer-Wolf to leave him; for this, his family would only want each other.

Lucy, laughing, was more wet than dry and wrapped in an enormous towel, with water lilies tangled in her hair and leaves stuck to her goose-prickled skin. She was red-cheeked with cold and cheer. She walked between Susan and Peter, who each had an arm around her; Susan held a bundle that looked like Lucy's clothes, and had lilies twined in her dry hair. Peter, bafflingly, carried a metal shield so old that it was clearly beyond repair; he carried it by the rim, and the center was thick with soot and ash.

"It's happened!" Lucy said, wriggling free of the protective embrace and rushing up to Edmund for a damp hug.

"Ah," said the boy-king who, despite a full acceptance of all that Narnia was, still held a bit of human reserve when it came to such things happening to his baby sister. "Congratulations?"

"Don't be so delicate, you oaf," said Peter, cuffing his brother in a friendly way over the head. "And take this." They fumbled and shoved over the battered shield, which eventually landed on the ground.

"Have to make everything a mess, don't you?" Susan sniffed; when Edmund glanced at her, he caught the light of amusement in her eyes.

"Good idea with the shield, Lu," Edmund said, picking the battered thing up. "Peter teach you that one?" There had been a miserable campaign in what seemed like a monsoon, and the ground had stayed muddy for weeks. Afterwards Peter had gotten very testy when the smiths asked why the shield Father Christmas had given him needed fresh enameling over the scorch-marks.

"He did," said Lucy, cheerful though her teeth chattered. "But I thought it'd be better to use an old one that wouldn't need fresh paint."

Peter grumbled, but lit up with a brilliant smile when Lucy stuck her tongue out at him. Susan put an arm around Lucy and chafed her shoulders. Edmund grinned, remembering his own time in the pond of lilies, and what he had learned there. He wondered what Lucy learned, but would never pry. She'd tell in her own time, or not at all, as she chose.

-x-x-x-x-

There is new magic and old magic, blood magic and earth magic, and beneath it all runs the Deep Magic and Deeper Magic that keep the sky in motion around the world. All Narnians know this without thinking it: they can feel it in their blood, recognize it in the turn of the day and the slower cycle of the seasons.

It was this that Cloudstrike told to Tumnus, while he had lost himself within the touch of Pan: the madness of Phorbas was not unknown, once, though in the time of the Witch it was death to speak of such a thing. Death to speak of a thing that the Witch had thought she'd put a permanent end to. But she was wrong. Gods are resilient, though they can be hurt.

"He put it inside me, the father did," Tumnus had told Cloudstrike, restlessly shifting the small stone from one hand to another. "He buried it, like a dream, only it happened when I was awake, or maybe in the time between awakeness and sleep. I can't remember, and I should, I should."

There are things the forest-folk know, and they learn without learning: it is bred into them as surely as the knowledge of breath and motion, of light and water. It is lore that, once understood and remembered, can be used, and never wrongly. Never for bad.

"The book," Tumnus had gasped, cold with sweat and racked with tremors. He clung to Cloudstrike, who held him firmly. "The book, the book, I found the book because of my father, but the winter came and he never taught me of the forest-father, so I never learned. So tame. Books and tea. I can write in two languages, you know, don't you? And I never learned to sing, I never learned."

Cloudstrike had lived in the times before, and he remembered. He knew the rhythms and the seeds and the light. So he knew what Tumnus had to do, and in the times when Tumnus was himself again, Cloudstrike told the god-mad Faun again and again until he could remember.

Once he remembered, he would know.

There was time for Tumnus to wait, to rest and heal and remember. Time until the Phorbas-touch faded from his mind as the wounds faded from his body. Time to gather the things he needed, carefully, stealthily: his old leather satchel, a leather belt for carrying a knife, a small grindstone and cup, an earthen flask of spirits. There was time, still. Time to listen to songs sung by his dearest friend, and sing with her when he could; time to let her tell him stories when the touch gripped him once more and he could not speak. Time to listen to the wise Centaur, again and again, until he knew all that he needed. So he waited, and healed, and learned.

The most important of his hidden things was a gift from Siana, the tree under which Lucy liked to rest and read: a Dryad-gift, a scrap of forest magic, so that one who did not wish to be found could not be. She understood, with the forest-sickness within her. She knew the things that the trees had whispered to each other in the air, had sung to each other under the ground, until the Witch came and blinded their father's eyes, until the Witch came and hid their mother's heart.

At last the day came when Tumnus woke without fear. He put on the belt with the knife, and he slipped his satchel over his shoulder, and he tied Siana's spell around his neck. He eased out of castle Cair Paravel in the murky pre-dawn light, and by the time his absence was noticed he'd long since disappeared.

He would walk the ways of the old forest with its soul alive in him, and work the old magic taught to him, and in doing so honor them all, alive and dead, mothers and fathers, heartsick and eyes-blind, who had come before and been lost or forgotten.

* * *

NOTES:

The _amanti_ is taken from both the Greek sirens and the West Indian Manatee. The name is ripped from the Spanish title 'Lamantino norteamericano," which itself refers to the original Taino word _manati._ The word _triche_ is from the genus name for sea-cows.

In my mind, Glendon made the Marge Simpson noise there when she told Peter off. Now you can't un-hear it. You're welcome.

More real People and Beasts: Eyzi is a tribute to another dog I once knew, and Aisling takes many quirks from the same friend who inspired Ruchabrik. Both are done with love, respect, and for the latter, a bit of friendly pigtail-pulling.

Lucy's experience in the lily pond was a thing I'd been thinking about writing but wasn't sure how to do it. After reading RthStewart's magnificent _'__I __love __not __man __the __less, __but __nature __more,__'_ I knew just how to set it up. If you haven't read that – go, go! Tell her I sent you!


End file.
